


Lover, Please Stay

by usuallysunny



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Angst with a Happy Ending, Denial of Feelings, Episode Centric, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: s03e06 Vegas with Some Radish, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Smut, porn with a bit of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28416705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: She's painfully aware she's not alone in the bed, his presence like a heady cloud of whiskey and smoke. She's still wearing his shirt and idly twisting the bullet around her neck and Chloe is sosickof pretending.ORFive times they call it friends with benefits — and the first time they admit it’s something more.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 162
Kudos: 696





	1. Vegas With Some Radish

**Author's Note:**

> This really is just an excuse to write some sexual tension/smut - honestly, does FWB ever end well? especially with one in denial Detective and one insufferable Devil! but angst with a happy ending is my jam. This is set during S3 and each chapter will have some relation to an episode.
> 
> We start with Season 3 Episode 6: Vegas with Some Radish. Enjoy!

It starts like this.

It’s gone 3am and Chloe’s staring at the centuries old Assyrian stone, at the hole Dan’s drill left behind.

She feels a fleeting moment of guilt before her eyes drag to the safe, the blue lights behind the number pad flaring softly in the darkness. She blinks, a dull throbbing in her temples.

It’s late— _or early_ —and she can feel the beginnings of a hangover forming.

That, or she’s still drunk.

It’s been a while since she let her inhibitions go the way she did yesterday. More than that, she’s just turned thirty-six, not twenty-six, and she can’t hold her liquor quite like she used to.

She’s also painfully aware that she’s not alone in the bed. It’s owner lies behind her, his chest rising and falling with every soft breath. She can’t see him, but she can feel him—his heat, his presence, like a heady cloud of whiskey and smoke.

She’s lying with her back to him, her cheeks hot, because she can’t possibly turn around and _why_ did she think this would be a good idea?

_“I’m too tired to go home,” she had huffed, snuggling into the bed and pulling the covers over her, “and too drunk. I’ll just stay here.”_

_“In this too-hot, five-star hell hole?” Lucifer replied from where he stood at the foot of the bed, his tone low and amused._

_Come to think of it, it wasn’t that hot and she sniffed, “did you get better air-con?”_

_“I did,” he replied, “just for you, Detective.”_

The drink buzzing through her veins had made her bold but _now_ , hours later, the nerves are creeping back in.

She stares harder at the safe, as though she can burn a hole in it. With her mind and senses sharper now, she thinks back to the numbers she’d watched him punch in.

_“Hello,” he’d purred suspiciously as she pretended to be asleep. She could practically see his brow quirking as he noticed the damage to his wall, and she’d stretched out to watch, feigning a yawn._

_She listened to five beeps as he pushed not 666 or 8008 into the pad, but—_

_61181._

She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, distracted as she was by the small gift box in his hand, but now, the significance of the combination suddenly hits her square in the chest. The date, the morning of 7 November, flashes on the bedside clock like an ominous confirmation. 

_6 November 1981._

Her date of birth.

Her chest suddenly feels very tight, her throat dry. Of course, it could mean something else, but it seems unlikely to just be a coincidence, and everything she’s been denying for so long burns too hot and too bright inside her.

She releases the breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding. It’s a shaky, tremulous exhale, and the subsequent inhale is like breathing in shards of glass.

She’s still wrapped up in his white shirt, her fingers gently twisting the bullet around her neck, and Dan and Linda are gone and she is so _sick_ of pretending.

She’s sick of pretending they’re just friends. She’s sick of pretending every new notch on his bedpost doesn’t hurt, that each one doesn’t chip away at her just that little bit more. She’s sick of ignoring this heat between them, this connection that burns under the skin.

At the same time, she knows it can’t be. Not in any serious way. They’d tried that once before and it hadn’t exactly stuck.

They’re too different, opposites in all the ways that count. She’s responsible; he’s the definition of irresponsible. She’s serious; he doesn’t know the meaning of the word. His idea of a good time is a drug fuelled orgy; hers is reading a story to Trixie before bed. Trying to be anything else had just led to her walking in on furniture covered in white sheets, and him into the bullpen with a stripper on his arm.

She never wants to feel that sting again, that hollow ache in her chest.

She needs to protect her heart so a relationship is out of the question—but so, too, is continuing to ignore this tension between them. They can't stay stuck in this painful grey area forever. That combination _means_ something. This necklace, like a millstone around her neck, _means_ something.

Maybe if she just _gives_ _in_ , lets it all boil over, she’ll get it out of her system. Get _him_ out of her system. And there’ll be no more sexual tension, no more painful memories dragged up by trips to Vegas, no more _Candy’s,_ no more heartfelt _gifts._

They’ll go back to being partners, work colleagues, _friends_ —and nothing more. He’ll stop trying to sleep with her, and she’ll stop feeling like a pressure cooker about to explode.

He’ll never be the type of man to commit. She’s been burned once already. He values his independence and really, so does she.

 _Yes_ , she thinks. She’s quite sure she could have this and not have it mean _more._

Lucifer’s the biggest man-slut in LA—nay, the _world_ —and she doesn’t want more.

She _doesn’t_.

She remembers the assembly line of his lovers that had filtered into the precinct that day and inexplicable jealousy burns like wildfire inside her. Why shouldn’t _she_ have the best night of her life? Doesn’t she deserve it, after a decidedly lacklustre sex life with Dan and the dry spell that’s followed?

She’s lonely and tired and she knows he’d be good to her. He’d make it so good for her.

With that, the careful thread of control she weaves around herself begins to unravel. She takes a breath, keeps her eyes focused on the safe—a steady reminder of her importance to him, though just like the gold and jewellery inside, he keeps it locked away—and slowly shuffles back.

She feels her confidence start to falter as the gap is still wide between them and she curses his stupid bed for being so _big._ No-one needs a bed this big—it’s just _excessive_ —and what sort of freaking _aerobics_ is he doing that he needs this much space? Her cheeks warm when she realises she might soon find out.

Eventually, in the time she swears it took Moses to cross the Red-fucking-Sea _,_ she feels her back brush against his front.

She swallows past the dryness in her throat. Even through the barrier of her— _his_ —shirt, his chest is firm and muscled and she knows it’s bare because he was only wearing black satin sleep trousers when he crawled in next to her and smirked _“now no funny business, Detective.”_

He'd only been teasing her and yet she's now wriggling her hips a little more so her behind comes into contact with his crotch. A shiver of anticipation curls in the pit of her belly, the air around her turning thin.

She arches her back and slowly undulates her hips.

Liquid heat begins to pool between her thighs as he remains asleep, his breaths quiet and slow. _Something_ is stirring to life, however, and she rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. The heat licking between her legs blossoms into a full blown ache as she feels his cock swell and harden behind her.

She’s seen it a frankly ridiculous number of times—Lucifer likes being naked as much as he likes his $10,000 dollar suits—but never erect. A blush creeps up her neck to paint high on her cheekbones as she realises the rumours about his size were _not_ exaggerated. Her breath begins to hitch in her throat as she grinds against it, her hips rolling a little faster.

Maybe it’s the sensation, maybe it’s the whisper of the rustling silk sheets as her body rolls and moves, or the catch to her breath, but eventually, she feels _all_ of him stiffen behind her.

His breathing snags and then stops altogether.

He’s awake.

Stomach clenching and heat flaring low in her core, she freezes. Her heart hammers against her chest, so wild she’s irrationally worried he’ll hear it, and he’s not moving either. Her cheeks suddenly burn with mortification.

She’s about to lose her nerve and shuffle away, about to mumble a half-hearted apology, when his hand travels to her hip, bunching the material of her shirt. His sure fingers splay over her hipbone, and _he_ begins to move _her._

Chloe inhales on a gasp, mouth dry and chest tight and wetness pooling between her thighs. Lucifer dips down and she can feel the grit of his stubble against her neck, the heat of his breath dancing across her skin.

“Detective,” he croons, his tone low and silken in a way that has a shudder tracing down her spine, “what on _earth_ are you doing?”

He sounds surprised but not perturbed, amused but not mocking. He seems _intrigued,_ and judging by the rock hard cock pressing harder against her ass, very into it. His hips roll behind her in shallow thrusts, like he’s testing the waters.

It’s a dangerous game of push and pull—who will bend, who will break first.

It’s an extension of a game they’ve been playing right from the start.

Her fingers come to gently grip the wrist of the arm he has around her waist. Slowly, she turns her head. As she does so, her mouth brushes against his, unaware of how close they were.

She’s always thought it cliché to talk of electricity—but she can’t deny the spark that travels to the tips of her toes.

It scares her. It spurs her on.

Before she can talk herself out of it, she presses her lips to his in a soft kiss. She feels his momentary lapse, his surprise, before he melts into it and opens his mouth so her tongue can softly entwine with his.

It’s short and slow—but it’s _nothing_ like that kiss on the beach.

It’s sensual, the air pulsing and thrumming around them like a living thing, and when they break away, he breathes her name—her _real name_ —into her mouth.

“ _Chloe_.”

“Don’t,” she whispers, _begs_ , because he’ll only ruin it with his silver tongue and his ridiculous, _ridiculous_ puns, “don’t make this into a big thing. I’m not drunk, I’m thinking clearly and I want this, okay?”

His eyes, black in the darkness, drop to her mouth.

“I don’t—”

“—you _do_ ,” she breathes because whatever excuse he's going to follow it up with… it doesn’t matter. He wants her; he’s always been shamelessly upfront about that, “I’m tired of dancing around it. We need to do this. Just sex. No romance, no dates, no commitment.”

His mouth tips at the side.

“You want a shag and run?”

She fights the urge to roll her eyes.

“I _want_ to get it over with,” she corrects, “things are… tense between us. If we do this, we’ll get it all out of our system. You’ll get to sleep with me, like you’ve been trying to do for years, and I’ll get to relieve some tension. Then we can just go back to normal— _partners_. Everybody wins.”

“Quite the negotiator, aren’t we?” he hums, amused, and his accent is a little thick and husky from sleep, “you really think it’s that simple?”

“Friends with benefits,” she answers, “no strings attached. I want to have sex. You _always_ want to have sex. Why not have sex with each other?”

A laugh rumbles from his chest, low and delighted.

“Better the devil you know, darling?”

Her lips twitch.

“And all the other dirty puns and jokes you’re just _dying_ to say.”

He arches a smooth brow.

“I can say them in every language you’ve ever heard of and a few you haven’t, if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she says dryly, primly, and then adds, “you’re stalling. Maybe you don’t want me… or maybe the rumours of your skill have been grossly exaggerated.”

She expects him to make a quip, to defend himself, to scoff in outrage. Instead, he merely smirks. His lips slowly pull over gleaming white teeth in a wolfish grin, and he rolls her onto her back.

“I’m so glad you came around, Detective,” he husks into her neck, “there are some things I’ve just been _dying_ to show you.”

She huffs, her fingers threading through his hair as she spreads her thighs and cradles his hips between them. 

She should have known better than to think he wouldn’t speak.

Lucifer is _excessively_ chatty. He delights in it. It stands to reason he’d be the same in bed.

He drops a kiss to her neck and then bites his way up, his lips trailing the sharp edge of her jaw. Finally he kisses his way to her mouth and her stomach clenches.

“Wait—” she breathes just as he’s about to kiss her; he pulls back immediately, “no kissing.”

He throws her a flat expression.

“We _just_ kissed.”

 _Yes_ , she thinks, and the memory still tingling on her lips is doing strange, worrying things to her chest. She needs boundaries. She needs control.

“No _more_ kissing,” she corrects, “it’s too personal.”

“Darling, with the things I plan on doing to you…”

“Do them then,” she says, bracing herself against the wave of heat his silken purr sends licking between her thighs, “kissing will be small potatoes. Who needs it?”

He smirks at her turn of phrase, his brow arching like he’s in on a secret he’s not sharing.

“Kissing can be _very_ sensual,” he murmurs, dropping a small, slow kiss to the corner of her mouth.

He respects her decision and doesn’t push it any further, but the way her core clenches at such a tiny gesture only proves his point. He trails his mouth to her cheek and then softly nudges her head to the side, kissing her neck before slowly moving down her body.

He sucks a bloom into the hollow of her throat and unbuttons her shirt with quick, clever fingers.

Chloe bites her bottom lip, feeling like she’s on a precipice, the point of no return. She falls over it when he gently pulls his shirt from her. She shivers in the cool night air and maybe when she was thirty-five, she would have wished she wore sexier underwear, but now she’s thirty-six and she knows Lucifer wants her regardless. Any which way.

His desire for her, blazing behind his dark eyes, is as obvious now as it’s always been. It makes her feel powerful, spreads like a blanket over her skin.

It makes her nervous too, presses too close, too serious, and she tries to hurry things along by reaching behind her and unclasping her bra. She tosses it to the side and shoves her panties down her legs and then she’s _naked_.

She’s naked in-front of Lucifer Morningstar and it’s not a dream.

His expression is dark as he rests on his knees between her legs. His eyes drag the length of her body, curious and totally unapologetic, and then he leans down to capture a dusty rose nipple between his teeth.

A moan falls from her lips, her back arching and her fingers carding through his hair, as he gives it a little tug and then flicks it with his tongue. His hand squeezes her other breast, feeling the weight of it in his palm, before he switches to give it the same attention. He pinches one nipple between his thumb and forefinger while his tongue rolls over the other, before something seems to catch his attention.

He sits up and there’s a flare of something she can’t read behind his eyes when he reaches down and picks up the bullet laying between her breasts.

She swallows as he idly runs it along the chain.

“You have no idea what it does to me…” he starts lowly, “…to see you wearing only this.”

A shiver crawls over her skin, heat blossoming in her cheeks, and her eyes flicker to the prominent tent in his sleeping pants.

“Don’t I?”

He glances down and huffs a laugh, a little chuckle that rolls from the back of his throat.

Time seems to stand still as he slowly spreads her thighs. She’s not embarrassed by her body—she’s pretty damn confident, in-fact—but the way he looks at her cunt, at the soft patch of blonde curls and the wetness shimmering on the insides of her thighs, makes her cheeks burst into heat. 

His pupils are blown to black, his lips slightly parted, and when he dips down and noses along the seam of her groin, she darts up.

She bends at the waist and grabs his head, her fingers threading through black curls.

He hisses slightly at the tug, a sharp inhale of breath over his teeth.

She blurts out, “what are you doing?”

His eyes are dark but calm.

“What do you think I’m doing?”

She’s vaguely aware of how ridiculous she must look, bent at the waist with Lucifer Morningstar’s head between her legs. She’s also aware it may be even _more_ ridiculous to turn down such a sight—his oral skills are probably what his conquests crowed about the most that day—but…

“I don’t—” she clears her throat, the words lodging there, “—the guys I’ve been with… they don’t really… do that.”

He arches a brow, thoroughly unimpressed, and gently pushes her back onto the sheets with a hand on her chest. She lays on the bed and he circles her clit teasingly with one fingertip. She gives a sharp exhale, her hips undulating towards him, despite her weak protestations.

“You need to keep better company, darling,” he mutters.

Under his breath, he mutters some more words and phrases. She catches _Daniel_ and _Douche_ and a sighed _amateurs,_ before he leans down and covers her with his body.

She helps him get his sleep trousers off and then he’s as naked as she is. She swallows past the lump in her throat at his size and thinks it’s literally _unfair_ that he has a beautiful cock too.

 _No-one_ has a beautiful cock, they are _not_ beautiful things, but his is.

God, she hates him.

He smirks at her reaction, _the vain prick_ , and then he’s resting on his elbows next to her head.

His thick length nudges hard and insistent against her inner thigh.

“I’m sorry—” she blurts out before she even realises she’s saying it, “about—” her eyes flicker downwards and his own eyes follow, “—you know.”

He blinks and then his eyes flicker with recognition.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he soothes, “it’s your useless partners who should be apologising. It’s a _crime_ they had you and didn’t spend every night with their face between your pretty thighs. Surely worthy of their own circle in hell.”

She rolls her eyes at his silly metaphors.

“You really like…” she swallows and then reminds herself this is about _her_ , it’s about sex and nothing else, she doesn’t need to dance around anything, “…to do that?”

“It’s only one of my favourite pastimes,” he purrs.

“During sex?”

He tips his head to the side and shrugs, “sure.”

She laughs and shakes her head because he’s _ridiculous_ and she wants him. She wants him so much, it suddenly hits her like a freight train.

“Lucifer…” she starts, her throat moving heavily.

Something flickers over his face too, a dark shadow.

“I know,” he says simply—and then lines himself up with her dripping entrance.

It’s shocking—ridiculous, really—how she’s so wet with practically no build up at all.

They’ve hardly even _kissed._

But then, she supposes the build-up has been over a year long, tension thrumming under the surface of every case, and she doesn’t want to wait anymore.

He entwines one of his hands with hers, resting their joined fingers on the pillow by her head in a surprisingly intimate gesture.

Then, with mutters of _the pill_ and _clean_ and _safe—_ he’s a slut, but she trusts him—he slowly pushes inside and fills her, inch by inch.

She gasps, her back arching and her head rolling back as he buries himself to the hilt.

He doesn’t speak anymore, doesn’t let any quips or jokes or seductions roll off his tongue. In-fact, his jaw looks wired shut, clenching in a strong line. She watches a muscle near his ear tick as he pulls out and pushes in again.

She squeezes his fingers while the other hand goes to his shoulder blade, her nails digging moon-shaped crescents into the strong, banded muscle. His breathing hitches, a sign he’s as affected as she is, as he controls his thrusts and sets a steady pace.

Shocks of pleasure spark from her head to her toes, her core growing increasingly slick. He bites a groan into her hair, his hips snapping faster. Her breath feels shallow in her chest as her fingers tangle in his curls, anchoring him to her neck.

She’s stunned at how good this feels, how right, like every part of her was _made_ to fit and surround him just like this, like every nook and cranny has always had his name on it. She pushes the sensations down, strange and troubling. Such things surely don't exist.

She bites her lip to stop from moaning his name or dousing his arousal by moaning _God_ (still a weird fixation she does _not_ understand) and her eyes roll back inside her head.

His hands travel to her hips, making her own hand mourn the loss of his grip. He angles her so he can slide even deeper, his arm hooking under her knee, and she wants to look down at their joined skin, but she can’t break away from his eyes. His pupils have dilated and she _swears_ there are flecks of red burning in his irises, and it feels like there’s a vice clamped around her heart, squeezing tight.

Half bathed in moonlight from the window, he’s so beautiful it makes her want to cry. 

“Harder,” she demands through gritted teeth, wanting to feel nothing rather than everything, “fuck me harder.”

He snarls his approval, slamming into her with new force. She doesn’t bother hiding her cry; _this_ is what she needs. She screws her eyes shut, letting her mind fall blank and her body take control.

In-turn, he keeps his gaze fixed on her, like he’s committing every expression, every movement and all the little sounds she makes, to memory.

His mouth brushes against hers, sliding hotly but not quite connecting. Their breaths dance in harsh pants in the gap between them. They’re toeing the imaginary line, the arbitrary boundary she’s set for them, and she tries not to think about how that might be a metaphor.

His hand slides up her sternum to her neck, the metal of his ring a pleasant balm against her burning skin. It digs into her a little as he gently grips her throat, and then slips two fingers into her mouth. She moans around them, her tongue swirling the digits, and then he’s slipping those fingers between her legs.

She shakes, her wet channel clenching around him, as his fingers start to rub circles on her clit. He might not be able to read her desires, but he can read her body, and he knows just how to touch her. He knows how much pressure to use, the exact give and take, and with one more angled thrust and a flick of her clit, she flies into her orgasm.

She comes in blinding waves that crash over her and make her feel like she’s falling apart. Volcanic pleasure blasts through her, taking her breath away and eclipsing anything she ever _thought_ was pleasure in the past.

She wants him to feel it too.

“Come for me, Lucifer,” she breathes into his ear and with a shudder, he does. She feels him fracture, pulsing and spilling hot inside her.

When he slips out of her, his cock half-hard and wet, she tries not to mourn the loss.

She also tries not to overthink it when he presses a painfully gentle kiss to her forehead and wraps her up in his arms—because even though he’s so psychologically damaged that he flinches at a hug, post-coital Lucifer Morningstar happens to be a _cuddler_.

She supposes he knows the rules for sex, he’s _comfortable_ with sex, and that’s all this is. As silence falls over them—the easy sort of silence that comes from years of knowing and trusting someone—she thinks it wouldn’t be so bad to try that again. He did say he had a lot to show her, after-all. 

For research purposes, of course.

Maybe she’ll even let him do that thing he likes, put that unbearably smart mouth to better use.

Maybe she’ll tell him she wants this to continue. She wants to make a deal, she wants a favour.

But she’ll _never_ tell him she knows the combination to his safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did this get so long, and why are they so chatty😭 
> 
> How long will Chloe's aversion to Oral Sex last, you ask? Spoiler! not long: ITSBASICALLYTHEWHOLENEXTCHAPTER.


	2. Off the Record

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during S3 Episode 7: Off the Record.

Lux is pulsing with heat, heady and overcrowded, the bass pounding through the floor.

Lucifer would call her a prude, a bore, but quite frankly, it sets Chloe’s teeth on edge.

She’s never been much of a partier, not even back in her _Hot Tub High School_ days, when parties were dime a dozen. She’d be invited to one every weekend and every weekend, they would be the same.

Sex, drugs, booze — she’s sure they rivalled whatever goes on in that penthouse after dark.

She doesn’t want to know.

Just the memory of them — the faceless bodies writhing, the lines of coke strewn across grand pianos — makes her uncomfortable. It’s yet another way her and Lucifer are different. She can’t even imagine what discomfort would look like on his face. It’s an emotion all too common for her and all too rare for him.

He looks comfortable now, totally at ease, as he stands at the top of the stairs — a king surveying his kingdom.

The easy way he moves, the calm air he carries with him — it would be impressive if it wasn’t so _annoying_.

Even through the smoke in the club and from where she sits at the bar, Chloe can see the darkness of his eyes as they flit across the floor. His fingers drum idly along the bannister as he makes his way down and Lux’s lights glint off the ring on his finger — like an omen, an ominous warning that screams _stay away._

Chloe can see that she’s not the only person — and certainly not the only _woman_ — watching him.

Lucifer’s just the kind of man who commands attention, who sends all the energy in a room pulsing towards him. As he notices her, his eyes flickering with delight and a smile pulling at his lips, she notices how he’s dragging out his approach.

He’s _peacocking_ , she thinks with a characteristic eye roll, because _everything_ is a performance with him.

Averting her gaze with a scowl, she wonders if he takes anything seriously. She wonders if anything is _real_ with him. She wonders if that night a few weeks ago was real to him, because it was real to her.

She wonders if he thinks about it because _she_ thinks about it — _all the time._

She thinks about it at night, wrapped up in her sheets with an ache between her thighs, one that can’t be eased by her fingers or the one, pitiful vibrator she owns, and she thinks about it in the morning and in the shower and even when she’s sitting at her bloody desk.

She loves it and hates it, regrets it and doesn’t, wants to walk away and wants to do it all over again.

She needs to lie down.

She feels him before she sees him, suddenly right behind her. She glances up to catch his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He’s wearing that usual easy expression — the charming smile, the slightly quirked brow.

The bartender is sliding a glass of amber liquid towards him before she can blink. As he takes it, her eyes narrow and her mouth pinches in distaste because _where_ was this sense of urgency when she was waiting for her soda and lime?

“Hello Detective,” he greets her eventually, coming to stand by her side, his hip against the bar.

He’s angled towards her and she is pulled into his gravity. It’s the expensive material of a well-cut suit, the rasp of a heavily accented voice, the heat of whiskey and smoke, and she suddenly feels drunk.

“Hi,” she says shortly.

“I didn’t expect to see you tonight,” he answers, unaffected, “finally decided to let your hair down from that unbearably tight ponytail?”

He reaches for the end of said ponytail, twirling a strand around his finger and giving it a casual tug. She bats his hand away with a scoff.

“Believe me, Lucifer,” she says, her tone flat, “if I have a headache when you’re around, it has _nothing_ to do with my hairstyle.”

Her fire only seems to please him, his mouth quirking at one side. He hides it behind his whiskey glass as he slowly takes a sip.

“And here I thought you missed me.”

“Like a hole in the head,” she smirks and then tells the truth, “I’m waiting for Reese Getty. He has the _Telegraph’s_ archived, redacted comments to give me. He wanted to meet here for some reason.”

“Interesting,” he says, his tone implying it’s anything but, and then he pauses, “wait _—_ he’ll be providing you with _all_ the redacted material?”

She frowns, lost for a minute. She combs through her mind and her eyes widen when she realises what he’s getting at.

She remembers his incessantly happy chattering at Reese’s office.

_“I was complaining to the Detective about some posts of mine that have been removed from a website for roosters of award-winning size. You see, I was posting pictures of my—”_

“Lucifer, no,” she sighs, trying to stop this train of thought dead, but his grin is already widening.

“You know, Detective,” he leans in, his dark eyes dropping to her mouth, “if you wanted to see my award-winning rooster again, you only need ask. I’d be more than willing for a repeat performance. In-fact, I’m rather revved up right now.”

She swallows, a strange heat stirring in the pit of her stomach and crawling over her skin.

“I highly doubt _those_ will be in his folder.”

“All the more reason for you to become reacquainted in person,” he hums, his close proximity causing her throat to run dry, “don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about it.”

She lifts her chin, setting her jaw stubbornly.

“Have you?”

Her tone is half cautious, half intrigued—and he smiles.

“Only constantly.”

She believes him, because he’s infuriating and ridiculous and very, _very_ challenging, but he doesn’t lie.

“Really?”

A little hum rumbles from his chest, a silken and seductive sound. His hand comes up to cup her cheek, the pad of his thumb swiping gently across her bottom lip. Her heart flutters wildly in her chest, rivalling the pounding bass thrumming through the club.

There are crowds around her, mirrors and smoke and flashing lights, and _yet_ — he’s all she can see.

“I’ve been thinking about how stunning you looked in my bed, wearing nothing but my necklace,” he husks and she wants to call him a _caveman —_ a classic, possessive alpha male _—_ but every snarky comment dies on her tongue when he adds, “and that pretty noise you make when you come.”

A shudder traces down her spine.

“I guess it… _may_ have popped into my mind once or twice…” she sniffs stubbornly.

“We merely scratched the surface that night, my darling,” he says, his eyes flickering to her mouth again to watch the movement of his thumb on her lip, “I told you — there are a great _many_ things I want to show you.”

She wants it too.

She wants it so badly, she’s practically shaking with it.

“Lucifer …”

“You wanted to get it out of your system. To _relieve some tension_ , I believe you said?” he smirks as though he knew the concept was ridiculous at the time and he knows it’s ridiculous now, “tell me, Detective… do you feel _relieved_?”

The notion is laughable; they both know they can't have each other just once.

She’s more wound up than ever — a jack in the box about to pop.

And he _knows_ it, the bastard.

Her eyelids flicker, her tongue peeking out to wet her lips and catching his thumb in the process. His eyes flash with pure want, heady and intense, and then Reese Getty is behind his shoulder.

He must sense him because his top lip curls in irritation.

“Oh _hello,_ Reese,” he croons, effortlessly hiding his annoyance as he drops his hand to the side and her cheek inexplicably aches from the loss, “good to see you again.”

The other man looks equally frustrated, a livewire, all tension coiled up in tight springs. Chloe shrugs it off. Sure, he’s weird, but she doesn’t particularly care about finding out why. She just wants the folder in his hand.

“Well,” Lucifer straightens, giving a tug on his jacket and adjusting his cuffs, “when you’re finished with your _paperwork,_ Detective…” his eyes flicker to the maroon sleeve Reese has clutched to his chest, “you know where to find me.”

And then he’s gone, leaving her with an inexplicably jittery journalist, an ache flaring low in her core and her mind very much _not_ on the case.  
  


* * *

  
The night doesn’t go _exactly_ as planned — but she still ends up in Lucifer's penthouse at the end of it.

She’s on the couch while he sits in the armchair on the other side of the glass coffee table. Her eyes follow the movement of his finger as it idly traces the edge of his whiskey glass, perched precariously on the arm of the chair. An ashtray, crystal and undoubtedly expensive, is on the side table next to him, curls of smoke floating from the cigarette still lit inside it.

It’s silent, but not uncomfortable, and the events of the evening are a lot to process.

“Lucifer?”

He hums in acknowledgement, dragging his eyes to her like he’d been miles away.

“I don’t feel bad for him.”

He arches a brow. “For Reese?”

“Yeah,” she says, “I don’t feel sorry for him. I only feel bad that I _don’t_ feel bad.”

He gives a wry smile at her very unique style of self-flagellation.

“You wouldn’t be _you_ otherwise,” he says gently, “I understand, Detective. He was a… flawed character, to say the least.”

“I just can’t believe he did it all for Linda.”

“He loved her.”

She shakes her head at that.

“Manipulating someone, controlling someone, doing things to win them over, not because they’re the right thing to do… that’s not love. He was obsessive and egotistical and he’s the reason an innocent girl is dead. I just can’t find it in myself to mourn for him.”

“Yes, I doubt I’ll be shedding any tears either,” he says dryly, taking a sip of whiskey. She watches the movement of his throat as it scorches its way down.

“It does scare me a little though… that he didn’t really seem to be in control of his actions.”

Lucifer leans forward a little, his expression flickering with interest.

“Relinquishing control… letting someone else take the reins…” he says slowly, “those aren’t always bad things. In-fact, they can be very desirable indeed.”

She takes his word for it – he _is_ the self-styled king of desire, after-all – and she’s seen what his weird mojo can do. She thinks there’s probably not a desire in the world Lucifer Morningstar hasn’t heard of, or hasn’t catered to.

She wonders if _she_ wants to give up control, tightly wound as she is, and she wonders if _he_ wonders that too — because she’s the only one he can’t read.

“When did you know something was up with him?” she asks.

He tips his head to the side, lightly gripping his whiskey glass as he balances it on the arm of the chair again.

“As you know, he got a tad obsessed with researching my _devil-ness_. Had things turned out differently, I would’ve appreciated the commitment — seeing as _some_ people still refuse to believe me.”

She rolls her eyes. She is _not_ getting into that right now. As far as she’s concerned, Reese being sucked into Lucifer’s weird metaphor only reinforces how crazy he was.

“Anyway, at this point, he thought I was just this dapper, eccentric — and slightly kinky — entrepreneur,” he’s continuing, his tone light and playful, “I caught him sneaking into my penthouse one evening while I was… _entertaining_. That’s when I knew he was sniffing around for more than just a headline.”

She arches a brow.

“Entertaining?”

“I had a woman tied up in my bed,” he says bluntly, and his tone is highly amused when he adds, “he thought she was in trouble.”

She shifts in her seat, hearing the squeak of plush Italian leather. Her mind spins, sparking with an interest she can’t quite push down. She’s not surprised to hear he’s into such things—even _she’s_ tried her hand at light bondage and he’s probably tried _everything_ — but the confirmation sends heat pooling low in her stomach.

He must sense her interest because his brow quirks with an interest of his own and the air seems to shift.

“What you are you thinking about?”

Her eyes flit to his.

“How she probably _wasn’t_ in trouble.”

His mouth tips at the side.

“No,” he murmurs, “she wasn’t.”

Chloe shifts again. As he lifts his whiskey glass to his lips and takes a sip, her empty fingers twitch and she suddenly wishes she’d taken him up on his offer for a glass.

“She _wanted_ to be tied up?”

“She liked surrendering control,” he says, “she wanted to be dominated, wanted to learn the pleasures of delayed gratification. I was all too happy to oblige, of course.”

“How very charitable of you.”

He smiles, slow and disarming.

“I could show you, if you like,” he offers, his eyes dragging a quick sweep over her, “no offence, Detective, but you’re wound tighter than a two-dollar watch.”

She huffs a laugh, fighting the urge to roll her eyes, but she can’t deny that he’s right. It’s _exhausting_ being the responsible one all the time — the perfect Mom, the good cop, the reliable friend — and there’s a persistent knot in her shoulders a massage has never been able to fix.

She clears her throat and her voice is a little cautious when she asks, “what would you show me? Just as a friend helping out another friend, of course.”

He grins that sinful grin and sits back in his seat, placing his whiskey glass down on the table next to him as he does so.

“Why don’t we start with that pesky aversion to oral?”

She doesn’t know why she’s so surprised by his bluntness. Lucifer is completely shameless, with a confidence that borders on cocky, blatant and unapologetic — _especially_ about sex.

It’s not that she has an _aversion_ to it, only that the partners she’s had in the past weren’t particularly _good_ at it. Dan was too lazy, only half-heartedly offering it on special occasions like her birthday or their anniversary. With Jed, they were young and inexperienced. He was enthusiastic, but it was too much so, and the whole experience left her squirming and uncomfortable. Her other partners were much of the same, or one-night stands where the act felt too intimate.

But with Lucifer… she knows it would be different.

Of course he’d be good at it — the _best_ — but it’s more than that. She _trusts_ him. She trusts him more than she’d like to admit. The feeling settles heavy and uncomfortable in her chest.

She’s surrendering before she even realises she’s made the decision to do so.

“Okay.”

“Wonderful,” he purrs, “come here, darling.”

She stands on somewhat shaky legs, making her way over to him until her knees are brushing his. He looks up at her calmly, one hand on the arm of the chair, the other coming to wrap around the back of her left knee. Her hands shake as they anchor themselves on his shoulders, her fingers sinking into expensive Armani.

She takes a breath and then lowers herself into his lap.

His hands travel to her thighs, his fingers dancing upwards. Her heart starts to beat a little faster, an uneven flutter in her chest. One of her hands goes to his chest, feeling the strong muscle under her palm, and she’s annoyed that his heartbeat is even and calm.

Her other hand wraps in his hair, freeing it from product, and the pleased little hum that rumbles from his chest shoots straight to the apex of her thighs. If she’s honest with herself, she’s always had a bit of an obsession with his hair. She revels in the opportunity to play with it, even if it is wrapped up in the guise of a _no-strings-attached_ arrangement.

His mouth traces the underside of her jaw. He breathes her in and she breathes him in, the same modest perfume she’s used for a decade against what is probably ridiculously expensive cologne. She feels the rasp of a neat, well-trimmed beard glide across her cheek as his lips brush over hers. 

“Let me kiss you.”

She smiles, dirty and slow.

“No.”

He whines low in his throat. It’s without a doubt the sexiest thing she’s ever heard and her aching core clenches around thin air.

She stands instead, not missing the way he shifts and subtly adjusts himself as she does so. She can see the outline of his cock pressing against his tailored pants. That, and the slight red blossoming high on his cheeks, betrays the fact that he’s affected by this — this game of push and pull — just as much as she is.

She takes his hand, entwining their fingers and leading them up the steps to his bedroom. The whiskey stays where it is, the cigarette in the ashtray all burned out, as she sits on the edge of the bed.

Her hand flits across the expensive cover, her mind bristling with the memory of the last time she was here. He steps towards her, between her spread thighs, and cups her cheek.

“What do you want?”

His voice is lower, huskier, and she swallows.

_Whatever you’ll give me._

It sweeps through her mind before she can stop it. She pushes it down.

“I want to be tied up too,” she tries to sound demanding, strong, “just my hands. And then you can do that... thing you do with your mouth.”

Said mouth quirks in amusement, at her inability to even say the words, and then he’s disappearing into one of his many, _many_ closets. She doesn’t even want to _know_ what he’s got in there, imagines a flurry of latex and leather and sex toys where she wouldn’t even know where to put them. She sheds her top and shimmies out of her jeans while he’s gone, thankful he’s not here to see how she trips over her own feet, and then scoots to the middle of the bed in just her underwear.

She’d clad in matching red lace tonight and her legs are freshly smooth and shaven but it’s not because she was expecting this to happen—it’s _not._

When he returns, he’s threading some black rope between his fingers. His expression is casual but intrigued as his eyes flick over her.

He approaches the head of the bed, his finger coming out to hook around the strap of her bra.

“These new?” he asks, giving it a playful tug and letting it snap back to her skin.

She narrows her eyes as he gently picks up a wrist and starts to fasten it to the bed. He’s quiet as he works, his fingers quick and clever - it's certainly not his first time, after-all - and her gaze follows him as he moves to the other side and does the same.

“No,” she lies, her tone snarky, and gives a little tug on the restraints. They obviously remain in place but they’re not unbearably tight - she feels safe - and she also feels a tell-tale heat lick between her thighs.

He sheds his jacket and waistcoat and settles between her thighs.

“Did you wear them for me?” he asks, knuckles trailing teasingly down her side. She suppresses a shudder.

“No,” she lies again and sucks in a breath over her teeth, “it’s just laundry day.”

He laughs, carefree and real. It’s a lovely sound that makes her chest hurt. He’s so charming, he wears a smile like a weapon, but it’s always a mask, an act. She thinks he should laugh like _that_ more.

She watches with heavy lids as he takes his shirt off too, revealing his chest. Her fingers itch to touch him.

She glances sideways at the binds, giving them another little tug.

“Is this how Reese found the other girl?” she asks.

A strange expression passes over Lucifer’s face, his brow creasing.

“Now why would I want to talk about her when I have _you_ in my bed?” he hums, his fingers coming to gently grip at her ankle. He slides his palm up, his ring rasping against her skin, until he reaches her thigh and then gently coaxes her legs apart.

She bites her bottom lip, the warm pressure in her core intensifying.

“Just wondering,” she mumbles because it’s good to remind herself this is only a game, an arrangement.

It’s not real.

And yet—the hot waves of jealousy currently licking inside her are _very_ real.

 _How depressing_ , she thinks. How very _predictable_.

“This is about you, Detective— _us_ ,” he says gently, “but to answer your question, _no_ —she had a gag in her mouth too.”

Chloe shudders, her breath hitching in her throat. He must notice because his brow quirks as though to say _interesting,_ and she asks—

“Why didn’t you bring one for me?”

He smiles and leans over her, resting on his forearms. His lips trace her cheek and then the shell of her ear.

“Because I want to hear you," he says, "I want to hear every noise you make as I show you how good this can be. I told you, I've been thinking about them. I want to know what you sound like when you come on my mouth."

She shivers again, her thighs clenching together to try and relieve the tension. She rubs them together and feels them increasingly slick, wetness coating the insides. He kisses her cheek and then moves down her body, pausing at her neck to suck at a spot he noticed was especially sensitive last time. He’s a quick learner, it seems, and she’s not surprised. His breath is warm, casting goosebumps across her skin, and as his mouth traces her collarbone, her hips arch into empty air.

She feels the curve of his smirk against her skin and then he’s kissing the tops of her breasts, heaving out of her bra. He bites at her nipple through the fabric, causing a moan to spill from her lips. He leaves the bra on and plants an open-mouthed kiss on her ribs.

She breathes his name as his mouth skims to the other side, planting kisses across her taut belly, over the silvery scars from where she birthed Trixie. It’s a little strange to not be able to touch him, the restraints firm around her wrists, but otherwise, she’s comfortable. She’s not insecure or shy, she’s damn proud of her body, and the heady desire emanating from him proves he likes it too.

Finally, he reaches the apex of her thighs and gently pushes them apart.

His eyes are almost black, his pupils dilated, as he glances down. He keeps one palm splayed on the inside of her thigh, keeping her spread for him, while he presses the heel of the other against his clothed cock. It makes her feel powerful, to see his erection straining against the zipper, the effect she has on him, how he has to relieve the ache. Her hips shift a little, frustrated by the lack of contact, at the way he makes her wait. There’s a telling damp patch on her panties, the crotch a darker red, and his gaze is dark too as he hooks a finger around them and pulls the material to the side.

The move exposes her cunt to cool air, making her shudder. She bites into her bottom lip, a moan forming in her throat, as he just looks at her for a moment.

He slides a finger up her slit, marking her gasp and arch into his hand.

“Is _this_ for me?” he asks about the wetness there and another finger comes to join.

This time, she can’t lie.

“Yes,” she inhales sharply, “ _please_ —”

She stops the request dead because she will _not_ beg. She’s far too stubborn for that.

He smiles because he knows it—and his thumb presses firmly on her clit.

It’s not please, but _“fuck”_ that she shakily breathes then, white hot pleasure shooting to the tips of her toes.

He rubs little circles, his eyes on her all the while. She’s burning under the intensity of it as she keeps her gaze focused on his hand, the subtle movement of his wrist between her thighs.

He keeps his thumb pressed against her clit as two fingers slowly push inside her, stretching her. She can’t contain her moan this time, spilling from her lips, as her back arches from the bed. She screws her eyes shut, pleasure crawling from the pit of her stomach to strangle her throat. His fingers pump inside her languidly for a few moments, his thumb rubbing circles on her hard clit, before he draws them away.

She whines from the loss, her hips seeking. He must grow tired of the material being in the way because he draws her panties down her legs. She rolls her eyes when she notices him tuck them into his back pocket.

“Perv,” she whispers teasingly, earning a devastating grin in reply.

Her laugh melts into groan when he finally, _finally_ , leans down and breathes cool air over her. Her hips arch, her wrists tugging at the restraints, as he pauses to drop a globule of spit directly over her throbbing clit. She’s close to breaking her rule about begging when he swipes his tongue over her.

Her breath catches as he slowly strokes it up and down, his hands holding her thighs apart. Her hips roll, her fingers itching with the desire to touch him, to sink into the thick mass of black between her thighs. She remembers that flash of white as he hissed through his teeth the last time she’d tugged his hair. She wants to do it again, to rake her nails across his scalp, make him hum and growl into her cunt.

She likes hearing his pleasure, likes hearing what she does to him, almost as much as she likes _this._

And oh, she _likes_ it.

She realises pretty much immediately what she’s been missing. He’s not tentative like Dan, sloppy like Jed. She doesn’t need to guide him, to whisper _keep going_ or _there_. There’s no huff of frustration as he gets to the right spot but then moves just as her peak starts to build. He listens to her body, learns what she likes, and when a particular kiss or lick has her breath hitching, he does it again.

Her moan is more like a sob as he latches his mouth to her clit and sucks, hard. He focuses his attention there, feeling it pulse under his tongue, the way her thighs shake around his head. Her toes curl into his expensive sheets, her chest heaving and speckled with heat.

“ _Lucifer_ ,” she breathes, her head tipping back as his hot tongue laps at her.

His name seems to stir something in him and he growls thickly into her cunt. The sounds as he eats her out are wet and lewd, stoking her desire, and her thighs start to tremble.

His grip from one of her thighs releases and he trails his hand between her legs. He keeps her fused to his mouth as he shakes his head slightly and then pushes two fingers inside her. She moans, clenching around them, as he slowly fucks her with them. The added penetration coaxes her closer to the edge and she tells him so.

“Lucifer—” she chokes on his name as he crooks the fingers in a _come-hither_ motion, “—I’m so close.”

He hums, the vibration rippling across her aching core. A shiver races down her body, her breaths falling in broken pants, as she climbs closer to that precipice.

“That’s it, darling,” he rumbles as a hot ball curls at the base of her spine, “come for me.”

She obeys with a broken sob, her back arching and the band snapping. He rides her through it, licking at her softly as she shakes. The restraints whine under her strength as she pulls at them, basking in the sweet surrender of giving up control. She gives it all to him, lets him take it from her.

What’s left is sheer relief, bliss that bursts like sunlight behind her ribs.

He nuzzles into her inner thigh, his lips and beard wet with her. Her cheeks blossom into heat when he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and she fights the urge to lick her taste straight out of his mouth.

“Well,” she husks, breathless and light, “consider me converted.”

Lucifer grins, moving up the bed to untie her, and the air is easy and light between them.

“I’ll tie you up anytime, Detective.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR everyone! Let's hope 2021 is a better year. Anyone else as absolutely desperate for 5B as I am?! And what S3 episode am I gonna tackle next??🤔


	3. High School Poppycock/Let Pinhead Sing!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during S3 ep 15: High School Poppycock and S3 ep 17: Let Pinhead Sing!

“Detective!” Lucifer’s chuckle is lined with surprise as she shoves him into an empty classroom, “what on _earth_ has gotten into you?”

She locks the door and makes sure the blinds are closed—then her hands are tugging at his belt.

“You hopefully,” she mutters as she gets the buckle undone and slides the leather through the hoops. The clink as the metal hits the floor penetrates the silence as she works on unbuttoning his slacks next.

Lucifer blinks, his arms anchored to his sides. He’s clearly confused as she shoves his jacket off his shoulders too, and he winces as the expensive material hits the badly-cleaned floor.

“ _You_ … initiating sex… in public… while working a case?” he glances around the room as though he’s being _punk’d_ and what he adds under his breath is more to himself than to her, “how much ecstasy have I taken?”

“Don’t answer that,” she mumbles, but sure enough there _is_ a packet of something in his suit pocket. She can feel it as her hands drift over his chest and she _really_ doesn’t want the details.

 _At least it’s his own supply rather than evidence_ , she thinks, basking in the little victories.

She pushes him against the classroom door, latching her mouth to his neck. With the rasp of stubble under her lips, she feels, more than hears, his throaty chuckle as she kisses above his collar. Her hands grip at his shirt in an effort to pull him closer, swallow him whole.

“Detective—” her title melts into a groan as she finds a sensitive spot by his ear. She sucks at the skin just to hear that noise again and feels a wave of uncontrollable possessiveness, one that she has no business feeling.

When her hands creep down to his abs, he finally snaps into action.

He smoothly grabs her wrists, pulling them back up and holding them between them.

“I mean it—” he says, a concerned edge to his voice, but his breath is coming a little quicker and his eyes are a little wild, “—this isn’t like you.”

“No,” she concedes breathlessly, “but it’s like _Chloe._ ”

His brows furrow, confused.

“ _This_ Chloe,” she corrects, “the Chloe who loves Class of 3001 and drinks cheap prosecco and _laughs_. Todd Cornwell’s plus one.”

His eyes spark with understanding, his hands coming to anchor themselves on her waist.

“Well, who am I to turn down a bit of roleplay?” he asks cheerfully, a salacious grin lighting up his face.

She rolls her eyes but there’s a smirk tugging at her lips too. She leans up on her tip toes so she can whisper in his ear, “so I should cry out Todd’s name then?”

A light scoff rolls from his chest as he turns them around, deft fingers toying with the hem of the dress only _this_ Chloe would wear. He pushes it up her thighs, one hand fisting the material at the small of her back as his leg slips between hers. Her gaze is hooded, her lips falling open as he firmly presses his thigh up. Her clit pulses and throbs against it.

“I suppose it would be the first time a woman has, the poor sap,” he says dryly, “but much as I appreciate the commitment to the role… _Lucifer_ will be just fine.”

 _So much for undercover_ , she thinks, and his desire to hear his own name doesn’t go unnoticed. She doesn’t want to think about it anymore, wants to lose herself in the next excuse to feel _this_ again.

He pushes the hard muscle of his thigh up and against her core, making her gasp. She arches her hips towards him, her arms looping around his neck as she grinds her aching cunt shamelessly against his thigh. She’s sure he can feel how wet she is, seeping through the thin material of her panties and onto his tailored slacks.

He lets her use him for her own pleasure, lust flashing like a lightning bolt across his eyes.

“That’s it, darling,” he croons as her breath hitches and she rubs herself harder against him, aided by his own fingers biting at her hips, “just like that.”

“Lucifer,” she whines, her head tipping back as one of his hands leaves her hips to cup her breast.

He hums in acknowledgement, his other hand travelling to her ass to haul her up and tighter against his crotch. She keens, her hands gripping at his shoulders, and his mouth is at her ear.

“Is _this_ one of those _high school experiences_ you missed out on?” he teases lowly, his eyes flickering down to watch them dry humping like bloody teenagers, “I didn’t realise you had a student/teacher kink, Detective, or are you imagining I’m that asinine _Matt_ out there?”

She almost laughs. With a lean body wrapped up in Tom Ford, she can’t imagine him as a jock. The thought makes her wonder what he was like when he was young. She wonders if he’s always been obsessed with his style, and if he’s always been an outrageous flirt, and if he _did_ fuck any of his teachers, because she wouldn’t put it past him.

 _Unless he really did grow up in heaven_ , she thinks wryly.

“No, not Matt,” she huffs, already over that little flame of interest, the one felt by a lonely teenager who’d never had any attention from the popular kids. 

Lucifer smirks, his fingers dancing between her thighs. He slips them under the waistband of her panties and practically _groans_ at the slickness he finds there.

“Hot for teacher then?” he murmurs, “or wet, I should say.”

 _For you,_ she thinks—and then she doesn’t want to think anymore.

Her hand flies out to cup him, the heel of her palm grinding against his straining erection. His hips buck and he snarls a low growl between his teeth. She loves the sounds he makes. His hands travel to her ass, his fingers digging into her behind as he lifts her and she wraps her legs around his waist.

Everything moves quicker then, spurred on by desire but also necessity—their main suspect is now Todd Cornwell himself and they need to get to him before Maze does _whatever she does_ to him.

Lucifer props her up against the door with one strong arm as he shoves his slacks down—she swears he has a literal vendetta against underwear—and lines the weeping head of his cock with her entrance. She claws at his shoulders in reply, almost frantic with the need to feel him inside her. She doesn’t need any preparation, she’s been wet pretty much since they walked into the auditorium, undeterred by his whine of “Detective, this is _boring_.”

He’s certainly not bored now as he buries his face in her hair and pushes inside her with one strong thrust. She gasps, her eyelids flickering as he sets a fast and hard pace. She holds on for the ride, her wet channel clenching around him as he buries himself to the hilt.

They’ve never tried this angle before and it’s deep—almost _too_ deep. His pelvis presses flush against hers, grinding against her clit, and she hisses at the fullness.

He must sense it because he chuckles, his mouth brushing over hers.

“You can take it, darling,” he whispers, their lips sliding but not quite connecting, and his words and tone trace a shudder down her spine.

She moans, feeling hot and flustered and _full,_ and he presses a hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. She bites at it and it spurs him on. He fucks her in shallow thrusts as his fingers slip inside her mouth. She knows she has to be quiet; there’s still an auditorium full of people out there, ones who once made this high school their home, an experience she was robbed of.

She’d been envious before, carried away by it all, but how can she regret the road she’s travelled when it’s brought her _here?_

Somehow, the need to stay quiet makes it hotter. She can watch the clench to his jaw, the way it tightens with barely restrained control as he tries to hold himself back. She can hear only the creak of the door as the wood whines under his strength, the wet sounds of flesh on flesh as he fucks her against it.

He pumps into her hard and fast, her moan caught around his fingers. They’re wet when he pulls them out and cups her cheek, his thumb hooking around her mouth. She feels the power in every thrust, the desire and want and almost _anger?_ that emanates off him in waves.

“Fuck,” she hisses through her teeth as she’s shunted up the door, the head of his cock kissing her womb. She arches her back and meets him thrust for thrust, her heels digging into the small of his back, her toes curling. 

He must feel her sensing the edge because he takes his wet thumb out of her mouth and puts it to her clit, rubbing it in tight circles. She feels that hot coil twist tight in the pit of her stomach.

“Good girl,” he coos, egging her on, “come for me, Chloe.”

The words, and the use of her real name, have their intended effect. She flies into an orgasm so intense, she swears she sees stars. He’s right behind, thrusting once, twice, three times more before he buries himself to the hilt and his cock pulses its release inside her. His thick groan causes goosebumps to rise to the surface of her skin.

She feels some of his cum drip down her thigh as he shudders, holding her for a moment before he puts her back down on trembling legs.

They stay silent as they right their clothes, back to the good cop and… _whatever_ Lucifer is.

“Lovely,” he breathes eventually, shrugging his jacket on and adjusting the cuffs, “shall we?”

He reaches into his pocket and slips a cigarette between his teeth before he opens the door and gestures for her to go first.

She listens to the click of his lighter as he strikes up the end and tries to ignore the uneasy feeling stirring in the pit of her stomach.  
  


* * *

  
“Thank you, Lucifer,” she breathes, her eyes anchoring to his mouth for a beat too long, before he gracefully pulls her up from the dip she’s in.

She watches the movement of his throat as he swallows, the guarded expression that sweeps over his face. She wishes he’d let it down again. She wishes he’d let her in.

Maybe then, they’d have a chance.

She pushes that thought down.

He pulls her into his body, one hand on the small of her back, the other encased in hers. Alison Moyet’s voice floats through Lux’s speakers and golden flecks fall around her and she still can’t _believe_ he did this.

They move to the beat, perfectly in sync, and he dances like he does everything else—smooth, graceful, effortless. Chloe feels something warm curl through her chest, a feeling that sinks to the pit of her stomach and turns to cold dread.

 _This isn’t good,_ she thinks.

Her fingers tighten around his and she starts to panic because this wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to treat her like he treats _all_ his conquests—something meaningless; the best sex of her life but that’s _all._ He wasn’t supposed to give her a makeshift prom just because he knew it was important to her, or use her birthday for the combination to his safe.

He only seeks what’s new—a new sexual act or partner, a new vice or drug—and now he’s had her, he’s supposed to be bored of her. But it’s happened three times now and he doesn’t look bored at all.

 _She’s_ not bored at all.

This was supposed to be clean and simple but she can smell him and touch him and _feel_ him—and nothing about this feels simple.

Her mind suddenly sparks with something Reese had said.

_“I told you, it's an... unconventional partnership.”_

_“What does he get out of it?”_

“Lucifer,” she speaks against the music, “whatever’s going on here… what do you get out of it? Why did you agree to it?”

His eyes flicker, the cogs in his head turning. She can feel his thumb rubbing soothingly on her lower back, his other hand warm in hers.

“Why wouldn’t I? Wanting to sleep with you is hardly out of character for me, Detective.”

She gets that but there _must_ be something more.

“Is that all?”

He tips his head to the side before giving a little sigh of defeat. He pulls her closer so her chin is resting on his shoulder, as though he can only say it—only lay himself bare—when he doesn’t have to look into her eyes. They’re so close now, she can smell his cologne, woodsy and masculine, and the trace of whiskey and smoke that always clings to him. It makes her feel dizzy.

“I love sex,” he says and she rolls her eyes, thinking it an understatement, “I love finding out what makes people tick, the more illicit and harder to reach the better. Sometimes it’s immediate, sometimes it takes a while, but I _always_ find out what they want. I can read all their desires… except yours.”

“That’s why you want me? Because you can’t _read_ me?”

“Amongst other reasons,” he says, “I don’t know what you want. I like trying to work it out. It’s… fascinating.”

She doesn’t say anything else then, the words pressing too close and too bright. This rare and strange and fragile thing between them… it’s affecting her more than she’d like to admit.

She’d wanted to get out of the grey area they were in—but with his arms around her and the memory of his touch on her skin, she realises this is just another shade.  
  


* * *

  
Everything changes, the day she almost blows herself to pieces.

She still remembers how weirdly calm the girl, Bree, had been, even with her finger pressed against a literal ticking time bomb. She remembers how she thought she’d ditched her boss—and how that had tapped into her fear that Lucifer might one day do the same to her. It made her realise she has a long way to go until she feels secure in her relationship with her partner.

But he _is_ her partner; he had reminded her of that. He’d refused to leave her side, even though it meant certain death for him too should the bomb go off.

She remembers the tortured look on his face as she thanked him for being there, a look that implied it was his fault she was in danger to begin with. He likes to tease her for being sanctimonious and he likes to remind her that it’s his job to punish people, but he punishes himself too. She wonders if he even realises how much.

She remembers Lieutenant Pierce— _Marcus_ —talking her through it, the sigh of relief that he’d breathed.

She tries not to look into that too much, but of course it’s _her_ and she does.

She thinks there might be some truth to Ella’s insistence that he likes her. She can’t see that connection she keeps talking about, can’t feel the fireworks. The lukewarm feelings she has for the Lieutenant are certainly nothing like the flames that lick inside her every time Lucifer is close. But maybe that’s not a bad thing.

Fire is dangerous—and she’s been burned too many times by him.

His behaviour in the aftermath of their brush with death only confirms it. He spends days obsessing over everyone _but_ her—a doughnut for rookie Jane here, an insistence on personally keeping 24/7 surveillance on a popstar there. 

He goes out of his way to show her she isn’t important. She doesn’t need any long heart to hearts with Linda to understand why.

He’s _pathetically_ transparent and she knows he’s scared—but it hurts all the same.

It hurts to constantly take one step forward and two steps back. It hurts to be treated with cold indifference, even if she knows it’s all an act. She knows he’s immature and she knows he’s terrified of commitment but she never thought he was cruel.

So when Marcus invites himself to the Axara concert, she finds herself saying _“oh yeah sure, why not?_ ”—even though she can think of one very good, _charming, six-foot-three_ reason why not.

She thinks it’s just not her day when Lucifer is right behind him, also expecting to accompany her.

He must be over his whole _ignoring her existence_ phase because he cheerfully announces an epiphany he’s had—

“I can’t control you or the world around you.”

It confirms her suspicions, that all of this was because nearly losing her again had shaken him.

“Well, it didn’t seem like you were interested in hanging out with me lately, so me and Pierce are gonna go,” she tells him, feeling more than a little awkward.

A brief flicker of surprise passes over his features before he insists it’s fine. His attempt to sound unaffected is somewhat betrayed by the sling he wears, an injury he received whilst literally taking a knife in the chest for her.

She throws him a line, hooked with bait, and hopes he’ll bite.

“Do you want me to… not go?”

It’s silent for a moment, so much hanging in the air between them.

She wants to shake him. She wants to kiss him. She wants to break him like he’s breaking her.

 _Please,_ she begs silently. _Ask me to stay._

But the moment passes.

He adjusts his already perfect jacket with his good hand and clears his throat.

“Of course not,” he says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “you have fun, Detective.”

She nods, an empty ache in the pit of her stomach, and she sees him walk away from her but she doesn’t see where he goes later that evening. She doesn’t see him watching her as she leaves the precinct, faking a laugh at something Pierce says.

She doesn’t see him walk into Linda’s office and she doesn’t hear him say—

“I think I’ve made a horrible mistake.”


	4. Orange is the new Maze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode links are a bit more tenuous in this one, but there is an adapted scene from S3 Episode 19: Orange is the New Maze.

“I’ve got news, Decker!” Maze declares as she strolls through the front door and straight into the kitchen where Chloe’s preparing dinner, “Lucifer’s a degenerate.”

Chloe scoffs, her knife pausing as she cuts up some vegetables. She falters for only a moment before she’s back to chopping.

“That’s hardly news, Maze.”

The bounty hunter slides onto a stool and casually flips one of her own blades around her finger. Chloe sighs and reaches over, grabbing it from her hand because how many times has she told her _no daggers in my kitchen?_

Maze huffs but doesn’t argue and then preoccupies herself with grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl. She unpeels it and rather aggressively takes a bite.

“No but, like, it’s just _weird_ now.”

“What is?”

“His _obsession_ with you,” she says, her mouth pinching in disgust, “you won’t believe what I walked in on last night.”

Chloe bristles at the insinuation, her skin prickling uneasily. By now, she’s an expert in burying her head in the sand but it’s not easy to do that when everyone around you keeps bringing attention to it.

She wants to ignore it. She wants to tell Maze he is _not_ obsessed with her and she’s certainly not obsessed with him and she should just keep her nose out.

Unfortunately for Chloe, she _is_ a little obsessed with him, and her response is depressingly predictable.

“What?”

Maze leans forward conspiratorially, her dark eyes sparkling like jewels.

“I’ll give you a hint,” she smirks and then her fingers start to lewdly pump the banana in her hands, a blur of yellow against black tipped nails.

Chloe frowns. Maze elaborates.

“He was spanking the monkey. Charming the snake. Beating the bishop— _that_ one’s ironic,” she pauses and then cheerfully finishes with a flourish, “he was _wanking!”_

“Yes, thank you, Maze,” Chloe sighs through gritted teeth, placing her knife down and despairingly pinching the bridge of her nose, “ _why_ is that so newsworthy and what does it have to do with me?”

“Because he had a party of horny bachelorettes in the club below him!” she exclaims, “ _two_ , in-fact!”

Chloe suddenly remembers he’d told her as much last night, just after he’d begged her to be careful with Pierce.

_“Do you want to stay? I can make some coffee.”_

_“I can’t, unfortunately. There’s a bachelorette party at Lux and, well…”_

There had been something strange behind his eyes, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on—but he’d never given her any reason _not_ to believe he’d be passed out with two twenty-somethings draped over him by morning. And so, with his apparent blessing, she had called Pierce.

She’d decided to try her hand at a relationship that could never leave her broken, because it could never be whole to begin with.

“So he decided to fly solo instead,” Chloe shrugs, trying to ignore how pleased that makes her, “I don’t see the issue.”

Maze huffs, finishing her banana and tossing the skin at her. Chloe catches it, her nose scrunching before she tosses it in the trash.

When she turns back, Maze’s split brow is cocked and a pair of very familiar panties hang from her finger.

Chloe takes in the red lace, the intricate pattern, and her eyes widen.

They’re _hers._

The memory of Lucifer tucking them into his back pocket just before he slipped his mouth between her thighs sears behind her vision. She leans against the kitchen counter somewhat weakly.

She suddenly notices Maze nodding at her a little maniacally, her eyes also wide.

“Yeah,” she breathes, half-amused, half-outraged, “the little perv must have _stolen_ these! I recognise them from the laundry basket because they’re the only pair you own that aren’t depressing as fuck. Let’s just say he was using them as… _inspiration_ as he _abused_ himself.”

Chloe’s unsurprised Maze recognises them—she’s _Granny Pants Decker_ for a reason, after-all—but she _is_ surprised at the rest of her revelation.

“Was he… embarrassed that you saw that?”

Maze scoffs a laugh, tossing the panties on the counter in a very unsanitary move. Chloe’s cheeks burn as she shoves them in her pocket.

“What do you think?” her voice is flat.

Chloe tips her head to the side, conceding that was a stupid question. Lucifer doesn’t _get_ embarrassed; it’s simply not his style. Maze elaborates.

“He just stood up, naked as the day he was formed, and laughed that I’d caught him at a bad time. I offered to bone him myself but he turned me down cold.”

 _This_ catches Chloe’s interest.

“You did?”

“Sure,” she says, “ _you_ might have some sort of freaky willpower but he’s _hot_. Seeing my not-so-little friend again in all its glory…” she gives a dramatic shudder, “yes _please_.”

Chloe shifts uncomfortably because her willpower is non-existent and her ability to think rationally also seems to have flown out the window—because she’s _jealous_.

“I thought you guys didn’t… do that anymore.”

“We don’t,” Maze shrugs, “as a rule. But Lucifer’s a hell of a ride, no pun intended. Sometimes I just have this _itch_ that I know only he can scratch. I’ve been around for millennia and trust me, no-one fucks like him. Not that I’d ever give him the satisfaction of telling him that, the smug bastard.”

Chloe suddenly feels a little hot under the collar, her throat running dry, and it’s not because of her friend’s weird, infuriating metaphors.

She picks up her knife and starts rather frantically chopping again, but Maze doesn’t let her off the hook that easily.

“So where do you think he got them?”

“Hmm?”

“Your underwear,” she sighs, exasperated, “do you think he swiped them from your room, the nasty, _nasty_ pervert?”

Chloe tries to come up with an excuse but finds herself falling short.

“You didn’t ask him?”

“Nah, I just grabbed them and told him he was gross.”

“What did he say?” she asks carefully—because this is _Lucifer_ and he never lies so why is Maze standing there completely oblivious to the truth?

“Nothing, really. Just changed the subject.”

Chloe frowns, her chopping slowing again. She gives up with an exasperated sigh, a carrot half sliced, and puts the knife down.

Lucifer wouldn’t give a _shit_ who knows about this little arrangement. Chloe knows that. In-fact, she’s sure he’d want to shout it from the rooftops. He’d boast and absolutely _bask_ in it, in the attention. He’s always proudly showed off his conquests—she’s pretty sure the day they interviewed 92 of them was literally the best day of his life—and given how long he’s wanted her, he’d probably show her off the most.

She knows he didn’t tell Maze the truth, that he’d skirted around the issue, for her. He knew she wouldn’t want people knowing.

It _does_ something to her, knowing that he’d been discreet when subtlety is pretty much the only thing in the world he’s bad at.

He’d done it for her.

She feels the need to do something for him.

Call it clearing his name, or call it _getting it off her chest_ because she’s going _insane_ , but she takes a breath and says—

“Actually, Maze… Lucifer and I… we slept together. More than once.”

Maze freezes, unmistakable shock passing over her features.

Chloe tries to predict what she will say—

“You _too?!”_

—but it isn’t that.

“Huh?”

“First Linda and Amenadiel, now you and Lucifer. Why are all my friends fucking my exes?!” she exclaims, upset, her arms flying up before they slap to her sides again, “what is it about my sloppy seconds that is so _irresistible_ to you people?!”

Chloe blinks, her brain trying to catch up.

“Linda and Amen… _what?”_

Maze is too busy frantically mumbling under her breath to reply, sliding off the stool and leaning over to grab her knife. Between curses, Chloe thinks she catches a _“traitor”_ and a _“devil-dick”,_ and then she’s pointing at her with said knife.

“I need to go stab something,” she announces, narrowing her eyes before they turn softer, “just—be careful, Decker. He’ll break your heart like everyone else’s.”

Chloe watches her leave, wincing as she slams the door, and thinks it might be too late for that.  
  


* * *

  
The whistle of the wind and the rumble of the Corvette’s engine fight for precedence as they cruise down the highway.

“That beach date you went on with Pierce…” Lucifer is saying, “was it a _date_ date?”

She remembers how uncomfortable he’d looked walking in on them in the kitchen, her with her hair loose and free from its normal, tight up-do and Pierce with a cooler under his arm. She’d had no reason to lie—she was free to do whatever she wanted with _whomever_ she wanted, as was he—but she’d found herself stuttering excuses anyway.

“Um, it was just a regular date,” she replies awkwardly.

He makes an indecipherable sound, a little hum from the back of his throat. She keeps her eyes firmly on the road as he rambles on about _gorilla-sized ham hands_ and _stale alcohol breath_ and she only decides to reply when he says—

“Also, I’m surprised that you’d date someone so in years.”

“What are you talking about?”

His right hand leaves the wheel, gesturing emphatically because he _does_ have a flair for the dramatics.

“Believe me, Pierce is much older than he looks… and we all know that dating older men has its downsides. Performance, stamina… you know, the important bits.”

He’s clearly fishing, trying to get a rise out of her, and she tries not to bite.

“Ok, Lucifer—”

“Well, I just hate to see you unsatisfied, that’s all,” he croons, and then the fingers of that right hand are casually dancing their way up her thigh, “especially when I know how _lovely_ satisfaction looks on you.”

She huffs and grabs his hand, the stone of his ring digging into her palm. He chuckles when she practically throws it back to him. His fingers curl around the bottom of the steering wheel in a loose grip. 

“Maybe _you’re_ the one who needs satisfying,” she grumbles before she can help it, “seeing as Maze took away your _spank bank_ material.”

The corner of his mouth twitches into a lopsided smirk.

“Ah, she told you about that, did she?”

As expected, his tone is casual and unbothered, while she stutters through her reply.

“She said you passed up _two_ bachelorette parties.”

“Yes, it appears my tastes are very singular these days,” he says, “in-fact, if you _did_ have another pair you wanted to replace them with, that would be just dandy. No matter if not. I have a _fantastic_ memory.”

His voice is light and cheerful while she sinks into her seat—and _how_ has a conversation about him obsessively wanking over her panties ended up with him totally unruffled and _her_ red-faced?

“No, I do _not,_ and stop asking about Pierce. We’re not even sleeping to—” she stops herself because she is _not_ getting into that, “—you know, we’re not… we’re _not_ … and never mind, and it’s none of your business. So how far are we? Are we nearly there?”

Lucifer’s mouth twitches in silent triumph.

“Nearly there,” he says—and puts his foot on the gas.  
  


* * *

  
Chloe yawns, her eyes stinging as she tries to focus on the mountain of case files on her desk.

The office is dark and silent, everyone having long gone home, but Dan has Trixie for the night and she’s determined to get some work done.

She’s also determined to avoid not one, but _two_ handsome, six-foot-three co-workers.

She _really_ needs to stop dating the people she works with, she thinks with a sigh. Not that what her and Lucifer do can be called _dating_ … and what her and Pierce do… she’s not sure what that is either.

She runs a tired hand over her face and wonders what the _hell_ she’s doing.

A crash from Pierce’s office suddenly makes her jolt, her pencil falling out of her hands.

She slowly stands, her brows pulling into a frown as she walks over to the office. The blinds are closed so she can’t see inside, but when she presses her ear to the door, she can definitely hear someone rummaging around.

She wonders if Pierce had forgotten something before he left for the night but then she hears a very cheerful, very British _“aha!”_

She rolls her eyes and opens the door.

Lucifer’s head appears from behind one of Pierce’s shelves, his brow arching in surprise.

“Detective!” he exclaims, “I’m glad you’re here. Look what I found.”

She closes the door and walks over, trying to shake off the feeling that she’s walking in battle.

“Why are _you_ here?” she asks, unimpressed, “and _what_?”

He shoves a CD in her hand.

“ _Bieber_ ,” he says, his eyes flicking from her face to the CD in her hands and back again, as though he’s waiting for her to look as outraged as he is, “what sort of grown man listens to Justin Bieber? Or has _CDs_? He’s clearly ill.”

Chloe blinks, turning the CD over in her hands, before she puts it back on the shelf with a sigh. 

“So he’s got a guilty pleasure,” she says, “I don’t _care_ , Lucifer. Why are you in here trying to find reasons to show him up?”

She has a feeling why, a suspicion she won’t give voice to, and she wants to hear it from him.

He tugs on his jacket, a gesture as close to uncomfortable as he gets, and clears his throat.

“I’m just looking out for you. Pierce isn’t who you think he is.”

“So you keep telling me—in infuriatingly vague ways.”

He scoffs, throwing his arms up in exasperation.

“He’s Cain, the first murderer, cursed to walk the Earth for eternity for the crime of killing his brother. _What_ is vague about that?”

She stares at him, wide and unblinking, before she shakes her head.

“I’m not doing this with you,” she mutters, reaching out to grab his elbow and intending to frogmarch him out of the office, “come on, let’s go.”

“No!” he whines and easily slips out of her grasp.

He goes to Pierce’s desk and stands behind it. She practically growls in frustration when he nosily opens a drawer and peeks inside.

“Stop it!” she chides, slapping his hand away, “you are _infuriating!_ And narcissistic and selfish and—”

“—yes, yes, I know,” he dismisses, waving a hand, “oh look—he has a bottle of vodka stashed in his drawer. That’s not sad at all.”

She grits her teeth and fights the urge to slam his stupid hand in it.

“You literally have a flask in your jacket right now,” she bites out, not having to look to know it’s there, “Lucifer, this is ridiculous. Just stop.”

“I _cannot_ idly stand by while you invite a madman into your bed, Detective.”

“Well, I’m not. He’s been nowhere near my bed, so can we just go?”

This catches his attention. He arches a brow and casually tips the drawer shut with one finger.

“Really?” he grins, delighted, “ _Still?_ How interesting.”

She sighs, crossing her arms over her chest in a defensive move. She really doesn’t want to talk about this, and certainly not with him, but maybe they _need_ to.

She’ll admit she got them into this mess, this weird impasse, and maybe she needs to get them out of it.

“There might come a time when that changes,” she says slowly, gently, “and it might not even be with Pierce. I might find someone, _you_ might find someone. But right now, this… _thing_ between us, it’s too painful. It’s _real_ … but it’s also very confusing and it’s hurting both of us. We can’t stay like this forever.”

She tries to read his reaction, but his walls are up. His expression is stony and unreachable.

She needs a reality check, needs to claw herself out of this pit of denial. He’ll always be a playboy and she’ll always be _this._ She can’t expect him to change for her any more than she can change for him—so where does that leave her?

It’s not a breakup, but it feels like one.

She tries once more to put the feelers out, to see if _this_ is the day the world has turned upside down and he’ll finally grab on.

“Unless…”

He clears his throat, a brief flicker of panic sweeping over his face.

“No, you’re quite right,” he says shortly, “nothing fun about this stalemate.”

She pushes down her disappointment, her chest a little tight, and forces a smile.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” she whispers, trying to lighten the mood, “you’re gonna be a hard act to follow, Lucifer.”

His mouth twitches, a gentle smile that’s soft around the edges. It’s probably the most genuine one he’s ever given her. There’s no bitterness between them, no anger. There’s just an aching gap that they can’t quite close—and it’s not because she doesn’t feel a certain way or because he doesn’t feel the same. It’s more that they’re two jagged puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit right now.

Nevertheless, it doesn’t take long before his eyes are dropping to her mouth.

“Why don’t you take me for one last spin then?” he purrs, his arm slowly winding its way around her waist. She gasps a little as he pulls her into his body, "out with a bang, hmm?”

She laughs because he’s just ridiculous and she knows it’s a bad idea—but she’s saying _yes_ anyway.

“Is that what you what?” she asks quietly, resting her palm over his chest, over his heart.

He covers it with his own.

“ _Always_ what I want, Detective.”

She lets her hand slide down his chest to his belt when suddenly, footsteps click outside the office door.

_Pierce._

Her eyes widen, the idea of being caught sneaking around his office after dark with _Lucifer_ filling her with dread. Her brain freezes as she grabs his shoulders and tries to push him down. His brows furrow in confusion and when he realises she’s trying to make him get under the desk, he scoffs and adjusts his jacket.

“ _Please,_ ” he breathes, outraged.

She narrows her eyes, cursing his stupid $10,000 dollar suits and his even more stupid haughty attitude, and then _she_ crawls under the desk.

The door click opens but it’s certainly not Marcus’ voice that asks—

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

It’s an awkward angle where she can’t see Lucifer’s face, but she can see his body stiffen and she can hear the surprise in his voice when he replies—

“I could ask you the same thing, Mazikeen.”

Chloe frowns, wondering what on _earth_ Maze could want in Marcus Pierce’s office. She shuffles back, trying to keep as quiet as she can, when Lucifer casually drops himself down into Marcus’ chair. She rolls her eyes under the desk.

She hears the click of Maze’s heels as she obviously sits down on the opposite side of the desk.

“Looking for Pierce.”

 _Why?_ Chloe thinks.

“Why?” Lucifer asks.

“None of your damn business.”

She hears a chuckle roll from his chest.

“And why I’m here is none of yours,” he says casually, “so it appears we’re at an impasse.”

Chloe stays quiet as they make conversation, a tense and strained conversation that has her confused. She had no idea they were at each other’s throats again—not to this extent—and she makes a mental note to ask him about it.

From this angle, crouched under the desk with his long legs spread in-front of her, her mind suddenly sparks with an idea. She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. It’s not like her. It’s not something sensible, responsible Chloe would do… but he _had_ suggested one more turn on this _friends with benefits_ carousel… and maybe she doesn’t want to be sensible, responsible Chloe tonight.

Just the thrill of knowing how much it would shock him makes it worth it—and then, her mind is made up.

As he speaks to Maze, she slowly lets her fingers dance up his calf. She smirks when he jumps a little, a small grunt of surprise falling from his lips.

“What?” Maze is snapping. She must have noticed it too.

He clears his throat and makes an excuse. He shifts in the seat, his legs widening a little. Chloe’s hand reaches the top of his leg, her palm splaying on the inside of his right thigh, and he spreads them even wider.

 _Slut,_ she thinks, delighted.

Where she had felt flickers of hesitation, he clearly feels none. He’s always erred on the edge of outrageous, certainly an exhibitionist, and she’s unsurprised.

Maze mentions going home.

Chloe’s mind buzzes with a memory—

_You’re the reason he won’t take me home._

—and they start talking in metaphors, mentioning hell and brimstone and ash. Chloe blocks it out, her hands travelling to his belt. She works quietly to undo it, pulling the leather through, and leaves it unbuckled at his crotch. Then she flicks the button of his slacks open and he seems to be on the same page, because he coughs to cover up the sound of his zipper being pulled down.

She feels wetness pool between her thighs when she notices he’s already hard. Desire hits her like a lightning bolt, coiling tight in the pit of her belly, as she pulls his erection out of his slacks and gives it a few steady pumps.

He shifts, his hips rolling a little as he sinks down into the seat. He coughs again and apparently Maze is too busy talking about herself to notice.

The office is sparse and clinical, just a few lamps giving out dim light, and Chloe can see the pearly white of pre-cum pooling through the slit of his cock. She swipes her thumb over the head, making his hips jerk a little, and uses it as lubrication as she slowly jerks him.

She hears one of his hands slam down on the desk, the other one curling around the edge of his seat.

“Okay seriously, _what_ is wrong with you?” Maze snaps as Chloe sees his knuckles turn white.

“Nothing,” he insists, his voice a little tight, “what were you saying?”

“I was _saying_ I don’t understand why your brother fucking your ex doesn’t bother you as much as it bothers me!”

Chloe chooses this moment to finally lean down and take his cock into her mouth.

_“Bloody hell.”_

He huffs and his voice is a little desperate when he begs, “can we _please_ not talk about Amenadiel right now?”

Chloe’s lips pull into a smirk around his cock, one of her hands anchoring itself on his thigh and the other coming to wrap around the base of his cock. She twists and pumps in a steady rhythm as she sucks on the head.

“He’s ruining _everything_ ,” Maze is complaining in the background but Chloe can barely hear her, nor does she care, as she takes him deeper into her mouth.

The hand that’s currently white knuckling the desk chair, the muscles in his forearm tense with barely restrained strength, comes up to her head. His fingers thread through her loose hair as he guides her up and down his cock. Her mouth slides the length of him, wet and hot.

“I’m sure he’s not even thinking about you, Maze,” he grunts, trying to cover it up with another cough.

“That’s the point,” she fires back, her tone petulant and more than a little selfish, “they’re both so selfish. Lying to me, sneaking around behind my back. And you won’t even take me home. You’re all assholes.”

“Alright, Maze,” he says in a tone one would use to soothe a child. He sounds uncaring, probably more preoccupied with the fact that he has his cock down a warm throat than his friend’s grumbling, “that’s enough.”

Chloe feels his fingers flex and tighten in her hair as Maze continues complaining, and she focuses on bringing him off. There’s a persistent ache between her thighs, a pool of molten heat. In the moment, she cares only about finishing this, feeling his release swell and pulse into her mouth. She wants Maze to leave. _She_ wants to leave. She wants to cum.

His hips give little thrusts, hopefully imperceptible to Maze, but ones Chloe can feel underneath her. She slips her hand down and pulls his balls out, gently rolling them between her fingers as she sucks him. She doesn’t hear the low breath that he sucks in over his teeth but she’s sure he made it, and she unbuttons and slips her other hand into her jeans.

Her flesh is slick and slippery wet, hot to the touch as she finds her clit and starts to rub tight circles. The muscle of his thigh starts to tense and tick. She relaxes her throat and takes him almost all the way in, pushing past her gag reflex. His fingers tighten in her hair and tap an anxious pattern on the desk.

Chloe feels a thrill race up her spine, both at the naughtiness of the situation, so unlike her, and at the fact that she can affect him like this. From the start, he’s played her like a fiddle, the king of desire, and it’s nice to make _him_ crazy once in a while.

She can tell he’s close, every muscle under that perfectly tailored suit pulling taut. 

Finally, she hears the scrape of a chair on the floor as Maze must stand up.

They mutter something else about hell and lies and Pierce, her voice getting further away as she must be walking to the door.

“Oh and Lucifer?” she says, like it’s an after-thought.

Chloe pulls off his cock to listen, her hand still languidly pumping the thick length.

“ _What?”_

“Tell Chloe I was looking for her too.”

Chloe pauses, her eyes widening a little.

Lucifer stiffens and shifts in the seat.

“Of course,” he effortlessly hides it, his voice silken smooth, “I’ll tell her when I see her tomorrow.”

Maze gives a light scoff.

“Sure… or after you’ve cum,” she says brazenly, “whenever’s convenient.”

Chloe rears back, sitting on her haunches, her face exploding into heat.

“Ah,” he breathes, his tone clipped, and his fingers release Chloe’s hair to tap on his thigh.

Chloe waits until the door has closed before she slides out from under the desk. He swivels in the chair, his hand going to cup her cheek, and she leans into it and cringes in sheer embarrassment.

“Detective,” he croons, delighted, his thumb rubbing across her swollen bottom lip, “my little _exhibitionist_. Maze is looking for you.”

She blinks at him and scoffs. Then she leans down and takes him in her mouth again, revelling in his low hiss as his head tips back, because she started something and now she has to see it through.

And that night, when he takes her home and makes love to her for the fourth time, it feels like the beginning of something, not the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chloe: This has to end  
> Narrator: It's not going to end 
> 
> 😂


	5. All Hands on Decker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during S3 Episode 22: All Hands on Decker. Enjoy :)

“It all happened so _fast_.”

Chloe practically whimpers, sitting cross legged on the uncomfortably sticky bus floor. She catches sight of her reflection in one of the tacky mirrors—the slightly bloodshot eyes and the crown askew on her head—and she gives a heavy sigh.

The friendly driver doesn’t say anything else so she continues babbling.

“Everyone’s wondering why I said yes—and I’m wondering the same thing myself.”

She’s been wondering all week. She can hardly believe she’s here. It seems like one minute she was tearfully whispering _“you can’t have it both ways”_ and the next, she was agreeing to marry a man she barely knows—and it wasn’t so much that she was madly in love with him, but that it felt good, steady, to make a commitment and know she had to see it through. It seemed like the responsible thing to do.

But now it’s her bachelorette party and Chloe doesn’t feel like celebrating.

She’s still a little drunk, a state that sticking her head out of the roof whilst being propped up by a beefy water polo player hadn’t cured. She feels the buzz in her veins, making her bolder than usual, making her question the things she’s normally so good at pushing down and ignoring.

She thinks about Pierce.

She thinks about _Lucifer_.

Then she can’t think at all.

“I don’t know,” she whispers brokenly, “maybe I thought that marrying a safe, steady guy would somehow change me into a different person… and maybe this new, spontaneous me would somehow… inspire the person that I still am.”

She’s not making any sense. She’s confusing herself… and deep down, she thinks she’s been confused for a long time.

She _had_ chosen Pierce because he was safe and steady. He would be a good partner. _He_ would never leave her with the paperwork while he sauntered headfirst into danger, showing a complete disregard for protocol. _He_ would never stand her up at a restaurant, or kiss her then leave without saying goodbye. _He_ would never run off to Vegas and come back married to a stripper, or say he didn’t lie, but use stupid metaphors to hide the truth from her all the same.

But he would also never make her laugh.

He would never tease out the silliest parts of her, the fun and adventurous side she keeps locked away behind her straight-laced veneer. He would never be her best friend. He would never blare out cheesy 90s tunes to make her eyes roll, or sing them to make her smile. He would never know how important her father was to her, or dance with her just to create a memory. She’s sure he cares about her—but she’s not sure he’d lay down his life for her.

Not the way Lucifer would.

She knows that like she knows 2+2=4. Lucifer would do anything for her, for Trixie, and he might be unreliable, but she can rely on _that_.

She twists the engagement ring around her finger anxiously. If this is the right thing to do, it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it.

“Hey, are you married?” she asks the driver.

She catches the woman’s gentle smile in the rear-view mirror.

“Seventeen years,” she says proudly, “he’s my everything. Hopefully your guy is too.”

 _He’s not_ , she thinks, _but someone is._

The truth suddenly hits her like it’s written across the bus in those ridiculous pink neon lights.

She can’t marry Pierce.

And deep down, she knows it has nothing to do with the ruinous odds Charlotte kept talking about, or the fact that _toast_ came to mind when Maze asked her what she loved about him.

It’s because she can’t give her heart away when it already belongs to someone else.

She’s so _gone_ for Lucifer, it’s not even funny. The way he moves, the way he laughs, the way he’s selfless around her in a way he isn’t with anyone else… it all rattles her. Her life simply hasn’t been the same since he walked into it—and she wouldn’t want it to be.

She’s suddenly angry with him.

She’s angry at all the missed opportunities, all the _almosts_ and the _maybes,_ and she’s angry he can never let her all the way in. She’s angry at herself too, because deep down, she knows it’s not _all_ him—but she’s not quite that evolved yet and punishing herself hurts too much.

“Are you alright, sweetie?” the driver’s voice is soft and concerned, her eyes flickering from the road to the rearview mirror to glance at her, “is there anywhere I can take you?”

 _Yes,_ she thinks, and in a list of all the places she should go right now, Lucifer’s penthouse is absolutely at the bottom.

But her voice is sure and steady when she says—

“Lux nightclub, please.”  
  


* * *

  
She shouldn’t be here.

She should at least have gone to Pierce first—but the small buzz she has is starting to wear off and there’s no way she won’t lose her nerve if she doesn’t just do it _now_.

She has some things she needs to say.

Her foot taps an anxious pattern on the floor as the elevator takes her up. Her stomach is in knots, her heart in her throat, and her eyes widen at the sight of her appearance in the mirrored console. She’s still wearing a bright pink top with her face on it, a crude stickman depicting her as the bride she’ll never be, and the crown is still askew on her head. She’s thankful she kept her normal, flowery shirt on underneath as she lifts the top over her head. She pulls the crown off too, grimacing as it tangles in her hair.

As a ping signals her arrival, she just leaves the items in the corner. She’s sure it’s not the first time a woman’s clothes have been ripped off in his elevator. It’s probably not the first time a cheap, plastic _Bachelorette_ crown has been discarded there either.

She runs her fingers through her loose hair, trying to comb the thick mass into some semblance of normality, and ignores how they’re trembling.

The elevator doors whistle open.

She hears Lucifer before she sees him, a soft and melancholy tune floating through the penthouse as he sits at his piano. There’s a crystal ashtray on the surface, a half-burned cigarette sending up clouds of smoke. He hasn’t noticed her, or he hasn’t reacted, and he’s shirtless so she can see every muscle in his strong back roll and flex as his fingers dance expertly over the keys.

She steps forward, no longer bathed in the yellow half-light of the elevator as the doors ominously close behind her. Her stomach knots again.

When she walks to the piano and stands beside it, he finally notices her and stops playing. His last note hangs interrupted in the air. It’s a jarring and unfinished sound.

He looks surprised to see her. She guesses that makes sense. Charlotte, Maze, Linda and Ella would be surprised too if they knew she was standing here, on the night she’s meant to be celebrating her impending nuptials to someone else.

Or maybe they _wouldn’t_ —and isn’t that the point?

“Detective,” his voice is a low murmur, devoid of its usual playfulness and instead just _tired_ , “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

She steps back as he stands, the piano stool scraping across the floor. He’s wearing red satin sleep trousers and nothing else and _that’s_ jarring too. She can probably count on one hand how many times she’s seen him out of a three piece suit.

He follows her eyeline, his eyes dropping down to his bare chest.

“I just got out of the shower,” he explains and she notices his hair then, looking soft and relaxed and devoid of product, “I stank of _dog_.” 

She frowns, confused, and he elaborates.

“Quite an intriguing case you missed,” he says, “we thought it was a canine killer at first, which made sense to me as Daniel obviously can’t be trusted with a real homicide, but no. The bitch was innocent. The killer has been apprehended and all is right in the world.”

She’s glad he solved a case without her and she’s very glad he managed to work with Dan but all is _not_ right in the world. The world, in-fact, is upside down.

“Can you put something on?” she snaps suddenly, the sight of his bare and leanly muscled chest doing strange things to her insides.

He raises a brow and his voice is slow and sceptical when he says, “alright…”

He moves over to the couch where a red satin dressing gown is draped over the back. He shrugs it on but leaves it open. She can still see a tempting sliver of skin, but at least she can focus now. She can breathe.

He pads over to the bar and she notices he’s barefoot too. As he grabs a tumbler of whiskey, rich amber liquid spilling into a crystal glass, she registers how strange it is to see him like this. He wears a designer suit and a smile like a weapon but _now—_ barefoot in loungewear with his hair freshly washed and hanging in soft curls across his forehead, he looks vulnerable.

She thinks about what it might be like to wake up next to him, to always see him like this. She thinks of all the things they could have had, had they not both been so scared. She thinks about that day she almost died from the poison, and the kiss on the beach, and she hates him for running away.

She tells him as much.

“I hate you.”

He pauses, his whiskey glass suspended half-way to his lips.

“Excuse me?”

She takes a breath, sharp and painful.

“I trust you, I respect you…” _I love you_ “…but I really hate you too.”

He blinks.

“Can I ask why?”

She places a hand over her heart, her fingers crawling around her throat. She feels flushed and hot and her heart pounds under her palm.

“Because I _don’t_ really,” she says, choked, “and I should. Because you don’t lie, but you don’t tell the truth either.”

She watches a muscle in his jaw tick, a slight twitch of irritation. It gives her a cheap thrill. She wants to ruffle those perfectly composed feathers. She wants a reaction.

“And _what_ , pray tell, is the truth?”

“That you’re scared,” she challenges him, “you run away when things get too real. You’re so obsessed with showing up Pierce, when really you should just _tell_ me.”

His fingers flex around the glass.

“Tell you _what_ , Chloe?”

It’s almost a sneer and her real name feels like a punch to the gut.

“How you _feel_ ,” she breathes incredulously, “why you act like you don’t care, but then you look at me like I’m the only person in the room. Why you made that prom for me and gave me that necklace, and why my birthday is the combination to your safe and why you won’t ever just let me all the way in.”

His jaw clenches again before he turns to her, his eyes dark and wild.

“ _You_ chose to start this,” he accuses angrily, “ _you_ chose to end it. And _you_ chose to say yes to Pierce. So don’t _stand_ there and blame me for everything _you_ can’t handle. I won’t take it. It’s sort of a theme in my life.”

His voice is icy and bitter as he adds the last part, following it up with a large sip of whiskey.

The words hurt, hitting her square in the chest, and she knows there’s some truth to them. He’s been an outrageous flirt from the beginning, but _she’s_ the one who came onto him. She came up with this arrangement, this guise of _friends with benefits,_ and he’d gone along with it. She was the one to say _“we can’t stay like this forever”_ and though he hadn’t stopped her, she was the one who agreed to marry Pierce.

He doesn’t know that he’s the reason she said yes, or that he’s the reason she’ll say no—because she hasn’t told him how she feels either.

She doesn’t want to give him any more excuses.

“Lucifer, what I feel for you…” she pauses and takes an unsteady breath, “I’ve never felt that way about anyone before. And I know how ridiculous that sounds, standing here engaged to someone else, but you _have_ to know… I would choose you every time if you gave me a reason to.”

She watches the movement of his chest as he takes a sharp breath. He puts the whiskey glass down and closes the gap between them, only a hairs breath apart.

His hand kind of reaches for her before he pulls it back.

“Chloe, it’s not…” he pauses and winces in frustration, as though he can’t find the words, “…it’s not easy for me.”

“It’s not meant to be,” she says, “if it’s easy, you’ve got no reason to try, and if you’ve got no reason to try, you don’t. Why did you agree to the arrangement when I asked?”

He huffs like it’s obvious and maybe it is.

“Because I want you,” he says heavily, “I’ve _always_ wanted you—and if your body was all you were offering, obviously I was going to take it.”

“But it _wasn’t_ all I was offering.”

“Then why is Pierce’s ring on your finger?” he asks heatedly, his eyes flicking down to the offending jewellery.

Anger flares in the pit of her stomach.

“Because _you_ were more interested in bad mouthing him than you were in being honest with me,” she fires back.

Maybe she _had_ itched to brand Pierce on her skin, to have his hands undo everything Lucifer had done. In that moment, when he had asked, maybe she convinced herself he could make her feel the way _he_ did.

She would feel that fire for him, just as she had for Lucifer.

Maybe things would be better with him, easier, because she _doesn’t_ love him. She doesn’t want him. Not the way she wants Lucifer—desperate and violent and painful. But now, she realises she wants that. Or more accurately, she doesn’t want the quiet, sensible, steady kind of love Pierce can offer her. 

She wants Lucifer. She wants _them_ —all of them—messy, uncontainable and wild.

She’s said what she came to say, put the ball in his court, and she doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. She doesn’t want to be around him anymore.

She tries to push past him but he grabs her easily, his fingers curling around hers and pulling her back.

“Don’t walk away from me.”

His voice is quiet but it’s an order nonetheless.

“ _You’re_ the one who’s always walking away,” she whispers.

The words seem to snap something inside him.

Before she can react, something dark flashes through his already black eyes, and he’s breaking her number one rule by kissing her.

He crashes his mouth to hers, one hand wrapping in her hair and the other flying to her waist to bring her in tight. Chloe gasps, her surprise awarding him the opportunity to slip his tongue in her mouth. Lust snaps at her heels like fire as she buckles against him, mouth slanting desperately against his. She feels drunk, dizzy, delirious—and all she can do is push right back.

He growls, quickly flipping them until she lands on the piano keys with a discordant crash. She feels tears stinging behind her eyelids, her heart pounding in her throat, and _god,_ he can kiss. It’s nothing like the short, clipped one they shared on the beach, and better than the passionate ones they share in her dreams. She knows she should feel guilty—she’s still engaged and she’s _never_ been a cheater—but she’s wanted this, wanted _him,_ for so long, she can’t bring herself to pull away. She can’t wait anymore.

She kisses him back desperately, messily. Their teeth clash and their tongues tangle in a dance they quickly perfect, her hands scrunching his dressing gown into fists of soft satin. He tastes like whiskey and smoke, mint and man and something else that’s distinctly _Lucifer._

Her breath is quick and short when he tears his mouth away.

"Don’t marry him,” he begs, “ _please_.”

The word hits her square in the chest; it’s a word he rarely says.

She cards her fingers through his soft hair, still damp from the shower.

“Okay,” she agrees breathlessly.

He kisses her lips again, his hands coming up to cradle her face. His mouth is soft and firm as it slides over hers and she wonders why on _earth_ she denied herself this for so long. She pushes the dressing gown off his shoulders and lets her hands roam across his chest.

His own hands tug at her shirt, breaking away from her mouth to pull it over her head. He goes straight back to kissing her and she shudders at the thick groan that rumbles from his chest when she tugs his bottom lip between her teeth. He picks her up, effortlessly lifting her into his arms as she wraps her legs around his waist. He keeps kissing her as he leads them to the sofa, sitting down with her in his lap.

She can feel the bulge of his erection pressing insistently against her aching core, heat seeping through denim. She rolls her hips against it, desperate to relieve the ache, and cups his jaw as they kiss. She feels the grit of stubble under her finger tips, a little longer than it usually is, like he hasn’t shaved. She tries not to look into it too much and he stiffens and flinches under her when she scratches over his jaw again.

He grabs her hand, his thumb running over her engagement ring. The light catches the diamond just right and it glimmers cruelly.

“Take this off,” he pants against her mouth, their breath dancing in the gap between them.

She should feel guilty as she does so, placing it on the table next to them. She doesn’t. There’s no place for it, no room next to the fierce desire and want and _love_ she feels for this man.

Everything moves quicker then, a desperation that’s never been there before pouring from their fingertips. He wraps his fingers around her hair and tugs her head back, his mouth grazing the column of her throat. She shudders in his arms and tries to ignore how she’s trembling. It feels like the first time, something having snapped, all this brimming tension under the surface boiling over.

She pulls away from him for just a moment, just so she can unbutton her jeans and shimmy them down her legs. He does the same with his sleeping pants and then leans forward to draw her panties down her legs as she works on her bra. She steps out of them and wonders if he’ll keep this pair too.

She hitches her leg over him again, settling in his lap.

His breath is uneven against her jaw as his lips trace the edge. He seems more affected than he’s been in the past, more vulnerable, and her chest aches in reply. She rolls her hips against the hardness between her thighs, the head of his cock kissing her clit.

She doesn’t realise she’s crying until his thumb comes up to brush a tear from her flushed cheek. 

“Fuck me,” he pleads, his hand slipping to her throat, “please, darling.”

The request licks heat between her thighs. She grinds her wetness against his thick length, hot and slippery slick, and then takes it in her hand.

She positions it at her dripping entrance and slowly sinks down.

He groans, a hot and desperate sound. She chases after it, grinding down onto his pelvis with every thrust. His hands grip her ass, lifting her up and down his cock. It’s hot and heavy and silent. He doesn’t croon into her ear, doesn’t wind dirty words like tendrils around her. He seems as choked as she is, as frantic and desperate, and everything they could never bring themselves to say spills out now.

His hands move to her waist, guiding her pace. His dark eyes, pupils blown to black, remain fixated on where they’re joined. Heat rises within her as their bodies move faster in union. 

Her nails dig into his chest, marking him and making him hiss.

“I missed you,” he murmurs then.

She trembles.

“I missed you too.”

She moans when he hits the perfect spot. She clenches tight around his hard length, drawing a groan from his own lips. She can feel a burn in her thighs, her breath escaping her in harsh pants of exertion as she rides him harder. He sits up, latching his mouth to her neck, sucking a bloom into her throat. He marks her as his, like he wants to send her back to Pierce with his kiss branded on her skin and his cum dripping out of her. It’s wildly possessive, animalistic, and she growls in response.

His teeth snag on his bottom lip when he sits back and she rolls it free with her thumb before she kisses him again. His tongue licks inside her mouth, swallowing her moans of pleasure. She continues grinding down on him, sliding up and down his cock.

“You’re perfect,” he rasps when they break away, “so bloody perfect, Chloe.”

She whimpers, her thighs trembling around him, her fingers tangling in his black hair. She tugs it, making him hiss, and captures his mouth in a messy kiss again. They fuck like it’s a fight, a push and pull for dominance, but she realises this has never been theirs to control. She sees the path that’s lead them there, a chain of unstoppable events. She sees them pulling away from each other only to come right back, two flames dancing intricately entwined.

She cries out when she comes, the intensity of it taking her breath away. His hands cup her face as he whispers to her through it, her hair falling like a honey veil around them, protecting them from the world. His voice is low, almost reverent, and he holds on and she holds on right back.

She can taste her own tears when she kisses him, his cock pulsing hot and hard as he comes inside her. She holds him as he held her, her fingers carding through his hair as he shudders in the afterglow.

They stay tangled together for a while, moonlight streaming in through the high glass window beside them. Eventually, cold dread settles over her as she realises the gravity of what she’s done. She feels the first sharp pangs of guilt, licking at her insides, and she doesn’t regret it, but she _does_ know there are hard times ahead.

She holds Lucifer tighter and knows there’s a lot they’ll need to discuss.

There’s a lot she needs to do—starting with breaking up with Pierce.

The shrill ringing of her phone interrupts the silence, making her jump. She ignores Lucifer’s frustrated mutter against her neck—“ _that bloody thing_ ”—and reaches for her jeans on the floor. She stays in his lap and grunts at the stretch as she rummages through the pocket.

She answers it without looking at the screen.

“Marcus…” her eyes widen at the voice on the other side and Lucifer stiffens underneath her.

Her _fiancé_ asks her where she is and if she’s okay and she lies about both. As she speaks, barely taking it in, her eyes find Lucifer’s and she feels an ache in her chest at the sadness reflected there.

“I’ll be home soon,” she says—and prepares herself for battle.


	6. Quintessential Deckerstar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after S3 Episode 23: Quintessential Deckerstar

It ends like this.

Chloe sits in the passenger seat of the Corvette, Charlotte’s perfume still clinging to her, and she makes a conscious decision to _live._

She stares at the road as they drive, a cold ache whistling through her bones despite the warmth in the air. The distraught expression on Dan’s face as he held Charlotte’s lifeless body sears behind her eyes and she briefly closes them against the image. She _knows_ Dan like she knows herself and she could read all the other emotions lurking beneath the grief.

She knows he will spend the next few days, months, _years_ even, regretting all the things he never said.

He’ll regret all the time he wasted, giving Charlotte _space_ when they both knew they just wanted to be together. He’ll regret how scared he was, how hesitant, all the missed opportunities and the nights of longing, needlessly spent alone.

He’ll regret that he never told her he loved her—because he clearly did.

Chloe’s eyes drag to Lucifer.

His grip is a little tight around the steering wheel as he drives, his jaw set in a firm line. She watches a muscle in his cheek twitch every now and then, his eyes dark and steely.

She thinks of how much time _they’ve_ wasted. She thinks of all the nights she’s spent alone, wanting to be with him, and the nights she _has_ been with him. She thinks about what a nervous gesture those nights were, wrapped up in the guise of _friends with benefits,_ just like Dan’s excuse of _space_. She sees how silly it all was now.

She thinks of all the lost opportunities and her inability to express how she feels and she realises all these excuses, all these problems… she was pushed up so close against them, they were stopping her from seeing how much she _loves_ Lucifer.

She is so in love with him. Deep down, she thinks she has been for a very long time. The realisation stings in her chest, a tight fist in the pit of her stomach.

She decides then— _no more excuses_. She never wants to feel that despair, the pure agony she saw on Dan’s face tonight. She never wants to lose Lucifer but if she ever _does,_ she wants him to know how much he was loved. She doesn’t want anything to be left unsaid.

“Lucifer,” she whispers, her voice carried by the wind.

He hums. It’s a small, dispassionate sound, but enough to let her know he heard.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” she asks, pushing past her flicker of insecurity, “I don’t think I can bear to be alone.”

He turns to glance at her.

“Me neither,” he says quietly. 

He returns his gaze to the road as they near her house. His right hand is resting on his thigh now, his left still gripping the steering wheel. Chloe slowly reaches for him, her fingertips brushing his. His jaw ticks but he doesn’t look surprised and then _he’s_ taking _her_ hand. He interlocks their fingers and rests their entwined hands on his thigh.

They drive on in silence and think of Charlotte.  
  


* * *

  
Chloe pays the babysitter and bids her goodnight.

She stops by Trixie’s room to just stare at her, breathing softly in her sleep. She’s standing by the creaked open door, leaning against the frame and she loves her so much, it’s almost painful.

She thinks of how lucky she is and how she’d do anything to keep her safe—and then she thinks of Charlotte again and the children she won’t come home to. Her throat feels too tight, sadness crashing over her like a wave.

She gently closes the door, feeling Lucifer behind her as they walk to her room.

They get ready for bed in silence, her slipping some pyjamas on and him primly folding his suit. He’s not wearing underwear because he _never_ wears underwear, so she hands him a pair of boxers Dan left behind. His expression pinches in disgust but he takes them anyway, and when he gathers some blankets to take to the living room, she stops him.

“You can…” she pauses, the words lodging nervously in her throat before she tries again, “you can stay here, with me, if you want.”

He regards her cautiously.

“Is it what you want?”

 _Oh dear_ , she thinks. Their communication skills still leave a lot to be desired, even in the aftermath of the most honest conversation they’ve ever had.

 _“I am the devil,”_ he’d said.

 _“No, you’re not,”_ she’d replied, _“not to me.”_

The exchange and subsequent soft kiss had been interrupted by tragedy, but now they’re _here_ and they’re alive and they're together.

“Yes,” she says eventually because one of them has got to give, “it’s what I want.”

He nods, placing the blankets at the foot of the bed as he climbs in next to her. They leave a bedside lamp on and it bathes him in soft half-light.

They lay in silence for a few minutes, the hurt of the evening brimming between them. She closes her eyes and sees Charlotte’s lifeless body, the blood seeping into her clothes. She was trying so hard to be better, to find a path to redemption, and the unfairness of it all curls an ache through Chloe’s chest.

She feels herself reaching for him, taking his hand again. He interlocks their fingers, his thumb rubbing softly over the back of her hand. She holds onto him like he’s an anchor, keeping her from sinking. She realises how much she’s come to need him, how she respects him and trusts him and just always, _always_ wants to be near him.

 _You did choose me,_ he'd said, and she would _always_ choose him.

They haven’t said the word _love_ yet, but it’s there, brimming under the surface, just out of reach.

She doesn’t ask if he’s okay; it seems a pointless question.

She just turns her head to look at him, his face blank and devoid of that usual, characteristic charm. He looks like he’s hurting and more than she wants it for herself, she wants to take the pain away.

She leans up and kisses him.

His lips are pliant under hers, his breath escaping in a little sigh as he returns the kiss. His mouth is soft and warm and wet as it slides over hers. They kiss for a few moments, tongues languidly exploring, before his hands come up to cup her face and he gently pulls away.

“Detective, I—” he pauses to close his eyes, a tortured expression flickering over his face, and when he speaks again, his voice is quiet, “—I don’t think I can.”

Her eyes drop to his mouth, that ache in her chest flaring.

“I shouldn’t have been with Pierce,” she whispers, remembering how very little she had felt while breaking off their engagement.

It hadn’t been right; _this_ is right.

“It’s not that,” Lucifer says quietly, “I know it’s quite out of character for me to say _no_ to sex with you, but I just… I don’t think I can have half of you anymore.”

She thinks about the first time they shared a bed like this, about the edge of a cliff she had been standing on. She’d been unable to make the whole leap, thrusting out a safety net called _friends with benefits,_ and she understands they can’t do that anymore. She understands why it’s not enough.

“I’d give you all of me,” she admits breathlessly, “if you wanted it.”

He huffs a little incredulously.

“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

She knows the feeling.

“Okay,” she says, “so let’s try. Because if I want to be with you, and you want to be with me, then we can figure all that other stuff out.”

His expression is unsure and uncertain and it’s a strange look on him. Lucifer is _always_ at ease, the most confident and brash and _intoxicating_ man she’s ever met, it’s unusual to see him on unsteady ground.

“Life is _so_ short, Lucifer,” she says heavily, significantly, the pain of Charlotte’s death resonating between them, “you have to say these things while you still can. We’ve already wasted so much time.”

His breath is a little sharp when he inhales, his chest caving painfully.

“I lost her,” he whispers, “I’ll lose you.”

She shakes her head, reaching up to place a palm against his cheek.

“You’re not going to lose me.”

His mouth twitches but it’s a small and melancholy smile.

“I’m afraid I will, Detective… and where you’re going, I simply can’t follow.”

She wants to tell him _no more metaphors._ She knows ignoring them has only encouraged him. But for now, she doesn’t want that to be the focus. All she wants is for him to know that he _is_ good and he _is_ enough.

“Well, I don’t plan on going _anywhere_ for a very long time,” she tries to reassure him.

“Humans,” he mutters in reply, absentmindedly twirling a strand of her loose hair around his finger, “so fragile, so very breakable.”

She hums, leaning into his touch, and remembers something she had said all those years ago.

_And what planet are you from - London?_

She’d found him so _weird_ when they first met, so narcissistic and annoying and infuriating. She couldn’t imagine how he’d fit into her life. Of course, she _still_ finds him infuriating, but now she can’t imagine her life without him.

Maybe he’s still thinking about how fragile and breakable she is, because he suddenly rolls her onto her back. She accommodates him without question, spreading her thighs so she can cradle him between them. He gently strokes some hair away from her face and the intensity shining behind his eyes takes her breath away.

“You must never die,” he orders fiercely, “you must always live.”

She makes a promise she can’t possibly keep when she whispers, “ _okay_.”

He dips down and kisses her, a kiss that hints at desperate intent. She feels his tongue on her bottom lip and she opens her mouth, blossoming under his touch. It licks inside, tangling with hers, a dance they’ve now perfected. Charlotte’s death still hurts but he’s the only one who can make her feel better, and she decides to live for _her._

He breaks away from her mouth to plant hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of her neck. His clever fingers toy at the waistband of the shorts she sleeps in. She lifts her behind to help him pull them and her panties down her legs. He tosses them off the side of the bed and pulls her top off too.

She’s not wearing a bra so his mouth attaches immediately to her breast, his tongue flicking over a pebbled nipple. She moans, her core on fire and her hips arching, as she threads her fingers through his hair. She’s sure he can feel her heartbeat, fluttering like butterfly wings against her ribcage. Her feet push the borrowed boxers he’s wearing down his hips and he helps her get them off.

He returns his mouth to hers as his fingers slip between her thighs. He groans at the wetness he finds there, at how ready she always is for him. She feels an answering twitch in his cock as it rests against her inner thigh.

“Inside me,” she pants into his mouth, “ _please_.”

He glances down, pupils blown to black, and hesitates. She reads his mind, knows he’s probably desperate to put his mouth on her, but she can’t wait any longer. She needs to be close to him, to let the light seep back in. She spreads her thighs wider and arches her hips to draw him inside.

He listens, bringing two fingers to his mouth. He licks the pads, his eyes dark and sinful, and swipes them over her already wet cunt. She bites into her plush bottom lip, the move flaring heat between her thighs and then he’s lining himself up with her entrance. She cups his face and whispers “ _please_ ” one more time.

He slides inside where he belongs. He’s so warm and so good and so _hers,_ the sensation is overwhelming. It feels like the first time, something having changed and shifted between them, and her lips graze his sharp jaw as he sets a steady pace.

He fucks into her slowly, each time sliding deeper inside her warm cunt, until she can no longer tell where he ends and she begins. She arches against the bed, tracing a quiet moan into his jaw, and he hisses through his teeth when she digs her nails into his back.

“Stay,” he suddenly mutters against her lips, the request floating on a kiss, “please stay with me.”

She exhales shakily, her heart feeling too big for her chest. She thinks about Charlotte again and all the things Dan never got to tell her and unlike that first time, she takes the leap.

“How could I leave…” she starts, her lips parting with a particularly strong thrust, “…when I’m in love with you?”

His hips falter, a choked sound rolling from his chest. It makes her sad, how surprised he looks, and she kisses it away.

“Chloe,” he murmurs, “my Chloe.”

She moans, a sharp coil building deep in her core. He fucks her harder and he doesn’t say it back but it doesn’t particularly matter because she _feels_ it. She feels it in his touch, his kiss, his seeming inability to let her go.

It’s over quickly, both of them needy and desperate to finish, to let the wave of pleasure wash away the pain. His thrusts quicken, her hips rolling to meet him, and he’s learned exactly how to rub her clit to bring her off. She bites his bottom lip when she comes, her orgasm only intensified by the hot little growl he releases into her mouth.

Her cunt clenching and tightening around him fires off his own orgasm and he shudders as he spills inside her. She holds him tight, her thighs trembling around him, and warmth covers her skin like a blanket at the smile he gives her.

“I meant it,” she whispers because she can’t _not_ say it, “I love you, Lucifer.”

He gives her a gentle kiss—a soft and emotional _thank you._

“And I you, darling.”  
  


* * *

  
Chloe jumps awake as a voice calls her name.

“Mommy!” Trixie runs in without knocking, her next words catching in her throat when she notices her mother’s not alone.

Chloe shifts, clutching the sheets to her chest as she shuffles up the bed. Next to her, Lucifer lets out a sleepy grunt and slowly stirs to life.

“Lucifer!” Trixie’s voice is high and excited as she jumps into the bed and crawls between them, “what are you doing here?”

Chloe doesn’t miss his little grunt as Trixie’s elbow clumsily crashes into his side. He clears his throat a little awkwardly and glances at Chloe.

“Your mother and I had a _sleepover_ ,” he recovers smoothly, a charming grin curving along his face as he taps her nose.

The girl smiles back, as utterly enamoured with him as everyone else.

“Are you staying for breakfast?” her eyes light up hopefully.

Chloe’s heart is in her throat as he glances to her again, soft and wary.

She feels tears stinging behind her vision as she waits for his response, but he’s waiting for her too, and slowly, she shrugs in defeat.

His answering smile is blinding.

“I'm staying, child,” he murmurs and ruffles Trixie’s hair, “in-fact... there's nowhere I'd rather be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh I can't believe it's over! I'm sad to say goodbye to this one, I've found it very interesting to write! Thank you all so much for your support, I cherish every comment :)


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